


Forever I Will Stay

by hapakitsune



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Babies, California, Canon Compliant, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Zayn One Direction, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick knows what he likes, and he knows that Harry is it. But he's been careful to never cross that line; he’s too old to be fucked up over a pop star. Harry, on the other hand, is still figuring out what he wants, and now he has the time to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever I Will Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrexic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrexic/gifts).



> Dedicated in part to pyrexic who asked for something else for fandom aid but was like "just give me that Harry/Nick you're working on" and so here it is. Many, many thanks to duchessofavalon for her angry emotional responses to the bits and pieces I sent her, to formerlydf for the beta, and croissantkatie for the britpick. Any remaining mistakes are thoroughly my own.
> 
> this is very much fiction.

There’s a gorgeous smell wafting down the corridor when Nick lets himself into his building after a long day of meetings. He sniffs the air, following the smell to its source, and is startled to discover that it’s coming from his flat. After a moment of wondering if he should phone the police, he decides that a burglar wouldn’t have taken the time to bake biscuits and that it’s probably safe to go inside. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and calls, “Hello?”

Harry is standing at his oven, wearing what look like jeggings, and a flowy shirt that drapes over his bum. His absurdly long hair is in a braid Nick strongly suspects to be the work of Lou, and he’s humming to himself as he pokes at the temperature dial. When Nick clears his throat and says hello again, Harry turns and beams at him, waving his hands. He's wearing oven mitts shaped like sharks.

"Hey," Harry says. "I'm making scones. And buns."

"Harold," Nick says. "Not that I object to your baked goods by any means, especially your buns—” Harry snickers "— but why are you making them in _my_ kitchen?"

"Isn't like you use it all that much," Harry says. "Anyway, my oven's broken or something, the bloody thing won't turn on. And I still had a key."

"Why not one of the lads?" Nick asks, sitting down at his kitchen island. "Surely you have keys to their places."

"They're for Louis," Harry says. "It's his birthday coming up. And you know the others, they're rubbish at keeping secrets."

“And you aren’t?” Nick asks. 

“I’m better than Liam and Niall,” Harry says, which is a fair point. “It’s hard to buy gifts for any of the lads because they can buy themselves pretty much anything they want, but Louis moans about it more than everyone else because his birthday always used to get lumped in with Christmas. So I got him a proper Christmas gift and I’m making him a baked goods care package for his birthday.”

“How is he?” Nick asks. He picks up the abandoned wine glass from the night before, pours the rest of the merlot sitting on his counter into it, and sits back. “Ready for little Louis Jr. and all that?”

“It’s going to be a Louise,” Harry says. “Or, well, it’ll be female. Don’t want to put gender constructs on my godchild before it’s even born.”

“Godfather, huh?” Nick asks. “Big responsibility.”

Harry flashes him a smile. “Who else was he going to ask?” He takes off the oven mitts and leans on the island across from Nick. “Telling the truth, though, I don’t know how he’s doing. Louis’s always been good about hiding the things that really bother him. I think he’s happy about it, but shitting himself, too. Scared for Bree and scared he isn’t going to be around enough.” 

“Have they worked things out, then?” Nick asks. He reads the papers, same as everyone, but he knows better than most how reporters like to make things seem more dramatic or romantic or interesting than they really are. They all say that Louis is giving it a go with his babymama, for a stable home and all that, but Harry shakes his head and waves his hand like he’s knocking away a fly. 

“They talked about it, but there’s a reason they didn’t go out more than a couple of times, and they both agreed a baby’s a shit reason to get married if you don’t really want it. Most sensible thing Louis’s ever done, probably. They’re good friends though, talking all the time. Louis’s been sending her the worst baby names he can think of. Pretty sure she’s regretting ever telling him she was pregnant.”

“That’s good,” says Nick, who doesn’t really know. He reaches out and taps the back of Harry’s hand. “And how are you? Haven’t seen much of you since you got back.”

Harry’s smile dims. “All right,” he says. “Tired, a bit. Feels like we haven’t stopped touring since we started. Most normal people take a break between tours to record, but not us. I’m looking forward to March.”

“Touring’s where all the money is these days,” Nick says. “How long are you back for?”

“Until after New Year,” Harry says. “A good two weeks, I think. Mostly don’t have to do anything.” He sounds exhausted now that the mania has gone from his voice, and Nick is tempted to turn his hand over and hold it. “We have a couple of shows out in America around the time Bree’s due, so Louis can be there, but then we’re off. Paternity leave or sommat,” he says with a small smile. 

“That’ll be nice,” Nick says. “Louis’s going to be staying in LA a lot more now, won’t he? You’re always complaining you miss them when you’re out there, though it’s your own bloody fault for going so far away.”

“If you’d ever lived in LA, you’d understand,” Harry says. “I love London, but it doesn’t have beaches.”

He isn’t wrong about that. Selfishly, Nick thinks Harry should stay in London all the time anyway, but he does understand how the attractions of sunshine and beaches might lure someone away. Nick couldn’t survive in LA. He doesn’t do anything the right way for them, and for as much shit as he gets for being snarky now, he’d get it far worse in America where saying one mildly mean thing to a celebrity can get you blacklisted for years. 

“Well, London misses you,” Nick says as lightly as he can. “Shouldn’t you check on your buns? I’d hate for them to burn.”

“Cheeky,” Harry says, and he wiggles his bum at Nick when he turns to peek into the oven. 

Harry stays even after his scones and buns are done baking, draping himself over Nick on the couch like it’s three years ago and they’ve just met. Harry’s a tactile person—his whole band is, really—but he hasn’t been like this in ages, which is the second sign that something’s the matter. The first was Harry being there at all, because despite what Harry says it isn’t really the most obvious choice to come to Nick’s to bake, not when he has roughly three dozen close friends in the London area alone. 

The third sign is that he actually lets Nick eat one of Louis’s scones, which is of course delicious. “Cinnamon maple,” Harry says in Nick’s ear as he moans around the first bite. “I bought the syrup when we were in Canada.”

“Fuck this pop star business,” Nick says. “You should open a bakery. Harold’s Buns.”

“And it can have a picture of me with my hair in a bun,” Harry says, sounding delighted. “Brilliant, Grimmy.”

Nick groans and covers his face with his free hand. “Oh lord, I’ve given you _ideas_.”

Harry steals half the scone from Nick and curls up next to him, throwing his legs over Nick’s lap while he nibbles at it. “I should go on Great British Bake Off. You think they’ll ever do another celebrity edition?”

“Next time I see Sue I’ll ask,” Nick says. It’s possible he’ll see her somewhere around the BBC studios, he supposes. “Now are you going to tell me what’s bothering you or am I going to have to figure it out?”

Harry looks up at him. Some of his hair has come loose from its plait, floating around his face. He’s so absurdly beautiful, even like this, messy and tired and stuffing his face with baked goods. Frankly, it’s offensive. Nick doesn’t know why he’s friends with young beautiful people. He’s got to make friends with some old hags. Maybe Madonna needs a new member of her entourage. 

“It’s, you know, the time of year, I suppose.” Harry tucks his head back against Nick’s shoulder. Nick adjusts his arm so it’s curled around Harry’s neck, fingers teasing the ends of Harry’s hair. “Get to thinking about what I want to do in the next year and all that, especially with all this time off we’re gonna be having.”

“Coming up with some New Year’s Resolutions?” Nick asks, gently unwinding his braid. “Going to get another tattoo or something?”

“I’m being serious,” Harry says. “Come on, Nick.”

“Sorry, love, you know me,” Nick says. “It’s just instinct. Carry on, I swear I’m listening.”

Harry shakes his head and is quiet for a long moment. "Things are changing so fast," Harry says finally. "Zayn's left, Liam's getting serious with Sophia, Niall—well, he's the same. But Louis's having a _baby_. A real live baby! Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for him, he's gonna be a great dad, but it feels like I woke up one day and it’s all been fast-forwarded. Like everyone else grew up around me.”

Nick remembers that feeling, when he had been a little older than Harry and had watched what felt like everyone he knew start getting married and settling down. It’s part of the reason his irresponsible group of idiots appeals to him; they’re none of them properly grown-up and they never make him feel like he needs to be. He’s tried being properly domestic on occasion, done the whole boyfriend thing, but he’s pretty rubbish at it, and he works better when he doesn’t feel like there’s someone he needs to report back to. His mum always holds that he just hasn’t been given a good enough reason to settle down; Nick isn’t sure if she’s right. 

“You feel left behind,” Nick says quietly, combing his fingers through Harry’s ridiculous hair. “I know how that goes, love.”

“It was coming for a while, I guess,” Harry says. “Ever since Liam and Louis started understanding each other, you know? Louis is still one of my best mates, but he and Liam are like band mum and dad. We’re not as close as we used to be.”

“Better not let Louis hear you call him band mum,” Nick says, amused by his mental image of what face Louis would make in response that. 

“Ha.” Harry burrows into Nick’s side and sighs. “I’m just worried. We’re doing all right since Zayn left, but sometimes it feels like it’s the first domino. Like we’re all going to find our own lives soon and we won’t be us anymore. I’m scared one of them’s going to come back from the break and say that they don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Even if that’s true,” Nick says, “you’ll still be mates with them, yeah? You’re still friends with Zayn, you said.”

“It isn’t the same,” Harry says. “What if we’re like the Spice Girls, Nick? They were never the same after Geri left.”

“I can’t believe you’re comparing yourself to the Spice Girls.” Nick finds a knot in Harry’s curls and sets to working it out. “I don’t know what to tell you, Harry, only that I think your lads love your band more than any of the Spice Girls ever did. Louis and Liam pour their hearts into it, you know that, and Niall loves being in a boy band, bloody loves it. So unless you’re planning on leaving—”

“Never,” Harry says emphatically. “I’m nothing without them.” 

“See? There you go. Stop fretting, love, you’ll give yourself wrinkles and then you’ll look as haggard as I do,” Nick says. 

“I think you look lovely,” Harry says. He gives Nick one of those heart-breakingly honest smiles and squeezes him around the middle. “Thanks.”

Nick kisses his forehead and pats him on the shoulder. “Better go pack up your buns so you can take them to Louis.”

“Can I come over on Boxing Day, maybe?” Harry asks. “You’ll be at your parents’, right?”

“Won’t you have things to do?” Nick asks. 

“Mum will understand,” Harry says, eyes downcast. He’s probably lying, but Harry wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need it. “Besides, I’ll be with them until then.”

“All right,” Nick says. “If you say so.”

Harry nods and sets about tucking his scones and buns into a set of metal tins that he magicked up from somewhere. Nick gets up and goes looking for Pig, who usually would have come looking to see what the ruckus was by now. As it turns out, Pig is sleeping on the end of Nick’s bed despite how he’s specifically trained her not to do that. He lifts her up and carefully deposits her in her doggy bed before, on a whim, picking up a scarf from the back of the armchair in his bedroom. 

“What’s that?” Harry asks when Nick emerges. “Scarf?”

It’s a pretty green thing, with a nice leafy pattern Nick’s always been fond of, but he wraps it around Harry’s neck without giving himself time to think about it. Harry blinks at him bemusedly, eyebrows raised the way he does when he thinks Nick is being ridiculous. Nick knots the scarf in front, pats it, and smiles. 

“It’s nippy out, love,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to sneeze all over Tomlinson and give him flu.”

“Oh, hush,” Harry says. “All right, now that you’re done playing Northern Mum, I’m off. Ta, thanks for letting me get all emotional at you.” He kisses Nick’s cheek and waves before slipping out. Nick’s willing to bet it’ll be in one of the mags, or at least on some gossip site, that Harry Styles of One Direction was seen leaving his flat. He’s still a little baffled that it’s considered news that friends hang out, but he supposes even soulless libelists need something to keep the papers full. 

It isn’t until he’s tidying up his kitchen a bit that he discovers a tin with collection of miniature buns and scones. He grins and photographs them, debates posting it to Instagram, and instead sends it to Aimee to gloat. She sends him back a string of skull emojis. He cackles, which makes Pig bark at him, and sends her a snapchat of him blowing a kiss. 

 

Nick spends Christmas Eve and the day itself pleasantly buzzed, as everyone should, and sings carols with his family, loud and tremendously off-key. It’s all lovely, the perfect Christmas, and it’s made better by the fact his family really like the gifts he got them. Nick’s mum has knitted him a huge afghan for his “drafty London flat” and even though Nick would like to defend the honour of his flat, it really is quite nice. He wraps it around his shoulders while they watch the Queen’s speech and the Doctor Who Christmas Special, lifting it to his face when it gets a bit intense. Harry texts him a little after nine, saying, _Happy Christmas xx H_ and then _I’ll be around about ten tomorrow._

“Is that Harry?” Liv asks. She’s got the biggest crush on Harry, which Nick can’t really blame her for. “Is he really coming tomorrow?”

“Says he is,” Nick says. “Keeps his promises, that Harry Styles.”

“It’ll be nice to see him again,” Nick’s mum says idly. “He’s always so busy, that poor darling. They run them ragged, don’t they?” 

Nick makes a noncommittal noise as he types out, _We’ll clear a space for you xx_. He’s still a bit surprised that Harry’s coming at all, not that he cares to share that with his family. He and Harry are mates and all, but his mum’s right, the whole band is run ragged. These days when Harry has a brief holiday, he prefers to go to his home in LA or spend it with his family, not as much clubbing as when he was freshly eighteen. He thinks—no, he knows—that something is bothering Harry, more than he’d let on when they saw each other last. Nick is trying very hard not to worry. He hates worrying about Harry; it’s exhausting and usually completely useless because it isn’t as though Harry likes taking advice all that much. He’ll listen, sure, but Harry’s always done his own thing. It’s one of Nick’s favourite things about him.

Nick sleeps late the next morning and wakes to his phone going off right by his head. _Nearly there,_ it says on the lock screen, and Nick scrambles out of bed to get dressed. He doesn’t bother putting in his contacts or doing his hair; Harry’s seen him in worse states than this. He grabs himself a coat, though, and heads downstairs, waving morning to the family members sitting around the dining table and having a quiet breakfast in. 

He stands out in the driveway until he can see Harry coming, his car a familiar hulking shape against the morning glow. Nick waves him into the driveway and waits until the car is stopped to approach. Harry slips out of the driver’s side, smiling brightly at Nick. He’s wearing a huge, shapeless jumper, a knit beanie, skintight black jeans with holes in the knees, and ankle boots that have tassels on the zippers. Nick adores him. 

“Hiya,” he says, sweeping Harry up into a huge hug and kissing his cheek. “You look stunning, love, but aren’t you cold? Where’s your coat?”

“Leave you in Manchester for two days and you turn into your mother,” Harry grumbles, hugging him back. “It ruined the look, don’t you know.”

“Ah, of course. Well, come on in, we’re just eating breakfast.” Nick leads Harry inside and calls, “Family! We have a visitor!”

Nick’s family loves Harry like a third son. They possibly love him more than Nick—something Nick will strenuously deny if anyone brings it up—even if his dad did call Harry Henry Stars for at least twenty-four hours straight. There’s a rush to greet him, kiss his cheeks, say hello. Harry bears it all with his usual good grace and charm, smiling at everyone and asking how their Christmas was. He’s a natural charmer, Harry is, and from what Nick knows, he was like this even before he was a popstar. He was proper born to it. 

“Come on, let me fix you a cuppa,” Nick says once Harry’s finished flirting with Nick’s mum. “And you can tell me all about your Christmas and the presents you bought for your mum and Gemma.”

Harry laughs and follows Nick into the kitchen. He gets himself a mug—the Mr. T(ea) one that Nick had bought home at a charity shop—and leans against the counter while Nick starts a kettle. He pulls off his beanie after a moment, dropping it next to him, and runs a hand through his hair. 

Nick waits until he’s poured himself a cup of coffee and had a long sip to ask, “So how was your Christmas?”

Harry smiles and launches into a long, convoluted story about the gift he’d bought for his mum and step-dad (tickets for a cruise, which is only mentioned in passing about two minutes after Harry starts talking) and, somehow, Gemma’s new boyfriend. Nick doesn’t interrupt at all, knowing from long experience that Harry always gets to the point eventually, even if it might take a while. The kettle comes to a boil before Harry’s finished, and they take a brief pause to sort out the tea. Harry has his own box of tea at Nick’s, loose leaf stuff that he brought once and left behind, “just in case,” and Nick has to dig out the strainer, a tea ball with a little ginger cat on the end of the chain. 

“Cute,” Harry says, which is the same thing he’d said last time. He dunks the strainer into his mug and swirls it around. “Sorry, where was I?”

“You were saying Gemma’s boyfriend had spilled sherry on his jeans,” Nick says. “Was it right over the crotch?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, corners of his eyes crinkling with delight. “Like he’d weed himself. It was brilliant.” 

The rest of the story, which involves a raucous rendition of _Auld Lang Syne_ and Harry trying to kiss Gemma’s boyfriend under the mistletoe, takes another five minutes to tell, by which time Harry’s tea has both steeped and cooled enough for him to drink. They adjourn to the lounge, where Harry kicks off his boots and curls his feet up underneath him, smiling at Nick like he’s so bloody pleased to see him. Nick’s never quite known what to do when the full force of Harry’s attention is fixed on him like this; he’s still honestly startled at times by what a good and close friend Harry has become. He wonders what he would have said in 2010 if he’d known the dimpled, green-eyed boy on X Factor would become one of his best mates. 

Probably wouldn’t have believed himself, if he’s honest. 

“So how was Louis’s birthday?” Nick asks, to distract himself from pointless thoughts. “He like the buns?”

“Louis loves my buns,” Harry says. “Didn’t tell him I made them in your oven, or else he might have not eaten them.”

“Ha,” Nick says. “One of these days he’ll learn I’m a delight.” 

“He’s just stubborn,” Harry says dismissively, which is probably the biggest understatement Nick has ever heard in his life. “Liam got him a whole load of baby stuff, and Niall gave him champagne and cigars to open on the big day. Think he had fun, really.”

“That’s good, innit?” Nick pokes Harry’s thigh with his toes. “Did you have fun and all? Feeling less mopey popstar about everything?”

Harry narrows his eyes at Nick. “Hey.”

“You know I’m joking, love,” Nick says. He holds out his arm. “C’mere, I think you need a cuddle.”

Harry comes easily, settling underneath Nick’s outstretched arm and tucking his head against his shoulder. Times like this, it’s easier to remember how young really is. Nick had been a nightmare at twenty-one; he can’t imagine what it’s like to be Harry and that young, still finding out who you are and settling into your own skin under the microscope of the media. Harry’s doing better than Nick would have, better than most, but it’s still a lot to handle. 

They sit like that for a while, drinking their coffee and tea in companionable silence. Harry is fidgeting with the fraying edges of the holes in his jeans, unravelling it further. Nick finishes his coffee first and takes a moment to really look Harry over, taking inventory. He’s not as tan as he was back in May when Nick had visited him in LA, but he still looks sunkissed and gorgeous, an unattainable creature that Nick has somehow captured for himself. Nick presses his thumb to the little worry lines between Harry’s brows, the ones that never seem to go away these days, and smooths them away. 

“What,” Harry asks, squinting up at him.

“Are you all right, Haz?” Nick asks. “You’ve been a bit, I dunno. Quiet. Weird.”

“Tired, I suppose,” Harry says. “This year has been completely mental. Brilliant, sometimes, but mental.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Nick asks. “It’s been a while since you last spent Christmas here.”

Harry makes a noncommittal noise and stretches out his limbs like a very angular starfish. “I missed you, too,” he says, cheek dimpling as he grins up at Nick. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Ah,” Nick says. “My scintillating presence.”

“I’m being serious,” Harry says. He rubs his face against Nick’s shoulder like a cat. “I wish you could come on tour with me like Soph does.”

“Be your kept woman?” Nick asks dryly. 

“Soph isn’t a kept woman,” Harry says, prodding him. “Idiot. No, I dunno. I liked when you came out to Los Angeles this year.” 

“Ah,” Nick says. It _had_ been nice. For all Nick’s attention-seeking ways, he does like when he’s able to enjoy a day out without paparazzi in his face, and he’s fairly anonymous in Los Angeles even if Harry isn’t. The two of them together isn’t a story the way it is in London, and they had spent more time together than they’d been able to for ages. 

The last day before Nick went back to London, they had driven out to a quiet, isolated beach and picnicked on the sand. Nick had drunk nearly an entire bottle of wine by himself, and watched Harry feed the seagulls, his hair gilded by the sunset, and thought _well._ Nick loves all his friends dearly and misses them when they’re away, but that’s the funny thing about Harry; he’s gone so often Nick only misses him when they’re together. 

“Maybe you could come out again this year,” Harry says hopefully. “Do you think you’d be able to get time off?”

“Might,” Nick says. “Could ask. Maybe Simon needs help with the US X Factor or sommat.”

“Love to see you and Demi as judges together,” Harry says, closing his eyes. He tucks his head into Nick’s shoulder, curling up tightly to fit. “Wake me up for lunch, yeah?”

“All right, love.” Nick runs his fingers through Harry’s hair and reaches for the remote to flick on the TV. He leaves it on mute as he channel surfs before settling on Sky, which is showing a Tom Hardy movie. He doesn’t bother paying it any attention other than to ogle Tom Hardy’s mouth, listening instead to the sounds of his family moving about the house and Harry’s quiet snuffling against his chest. 

_I love this boy_ , Nick thinks, not for the first time. He’s been pretty gone on Harry since they first properly met, which anyone who knows him has figured out. They’ve mostly stopped mocking him for it, especially the ones who realized it was serious. But if he’s honest, he’d almost rather have their jokes over the pity they give him for falling in love with a boy a decade his junior, who’s almost never on the same _continent_ as him, let alone in England. 

It isn’t like he’s been a monk; he spent most of his birthday in Mallorca in bed with Douglas, after all, and even if he doesn’t pick up as much as he used to, he isn’t hurting for sex either. He isn’t built to be celibate. And probably it would be fine if that’s all he wanted from Harry, but it isn’t. It never has been. 

It’s funny how it can come and go, being in love with Harry. Most days it’s just part of his everyday existence, like his accent and his hair and his wonky smile, and then at the strangest moments it’ll hit him like a tonne of bricks: he loves this boy. Sometimes, like now, it makes sense to be reminded how Harry makes his chest tight, and other times he’ll just be at the store looking at the fruit and remembering Harry’s stringent guidelines for buying bananas and he’ll think, _fuck, I love him_. 

“Nick,” his mum calls, coming into the lounge and immediately lowering her voice when she sees Harry. “Ah, never mind. Was going to ask if you’d help me with reheating the leftovers for lunch, but I see you’re busy.”

“I could get up,” Nick says, making no move to do so. 

His mum smiles and shakes her head. “Let that boy sleep,” she says. “His hair needs a cut, doesn’t it?”

“I like it,” Nick says. “It suits him.”

His mum mutters something about Nick never having much sense about hair, which is a bit rude, and sees herself out. Liv makes an appearance a few minutes later, still sleep rumpled, takes one look at Harry and runs back for the guest room, saying, “I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me he was here!”

“I know, I’m the worst uncle,” Nick says. Harry shifts against him, eyes cracking open. Nick shakes his head and Harry closes them again. 

Jane emerges from the guest room a bit later, coming to sit on the armchair usually occupied by their father. “So he did come,” she says quietly. She likes Harry, Nick knows. Most people do. Nick knew Jane had been prepared to hate him on both his and Liv’s behalf, but instead, like everyone else, she had been hopelessly won over by his dimpled smile and slow voice. 

“Said he would,” Nick says. 

“You all right?” she asks. “Not too much?”

Jane means well, Nick knows. But he’s trying not to think too much on it, on what it means that Harry’s here, or else he risks getting his hopes up. “Leave it.”

“Fine.” Jane stands and stretches her arms over her head. “I’m going to go help Mum. Take care of your lad.”

Harry is grumpy when Nick wakes him up for lunch, but the promise of food gets him moving. He hugs the rest of Nick’s family hello, produces a series of presents from his car, and generally charms everyone. Liv blushes and accepts Harry’s belated birthday wishes, gasping over the beautiful silk scarf he’d bought her as a gift. Nick’s mum calls him a sweet boy, and even his dad looks gruffly pleased at Harry’s gift of a new watch. 

“Trying to bribe your way into my family’s affections, I see how it is,” Nick says, poking his toes into Harry’s ankle. “Want to become the favourite son here?”

“You’ve got me,” Harry says, grinning. “I want to be everyone’s favourite.” He takes a bite of the roast and adds, “This is wonderful, by the way.” 

“Thank you, Harry,” Nick’s mum says, giving them a fond look. “How long will you be staying for?”

“Just today,” Harry says. “I’ve got to get home, made Mum a promise I’d be home for New Year’s.”

“She must miss you a lot,” Nick’s mum says. “Lord knows I miss Nick and he’s only down in London.”

Harry rakes his hand through his hair, an adaptation of the tic Nick remembers from when they first met. “I miss Nick too,” he says, neatly dodging the topic in that way he does. “I listen to his show sometimes when I’m up late. It’s nice.” 

“He texts me and tries to make me laugh on air,” Nick says. “The monster.”

“It’s sweet,” Liv says. She looks starry-eyed. Harry flashes Nick a grin and bends back over his plate. Harry’s good at turning the conversation, so good at it that it had taken Nick a while to realize that he does it. Nick wonders if Harry changing the subject now means that he’s avoiding talking about his family, or that he’d rather talk about missing Nick. 

“Eat your food, Nick,” Harry says, tapping his arm. “Your mum slaved over this for you.”

“Listen to the nice boy, Nick,” his mum says. 

Nick rolls his eyes, but digs in anyway. His mum’s roast really is very good. 

Harry sticks around for the ritual watching of telly and the departure of Nick’s siblings, and Nick doesn’t think to ask when he’s leaving until after evening tea. 

“Oh,” Harry says, “I thought I’d wait until it was a bit later. In case anyone out there is paying attention.” He waves his hand vaguely. Nick knows paparazzi have staked out Harry’s house all hours of the day, which may be part of the reason Harry isn’t home often. It’s a bit of an idealistic wish to hope they’d take Christmas off, but perhaps he’s right. “Can I kip in your bed for a bit?”

“All right,” Nick says. “Come on, then, you lazy thing.”

It’s habit by now for Harry to curl up in Nick’s bed, Nick draped around him. They both sleep better with other people around, and Harry likes to be surrounded. Nick’s bed here is a bit smaller than the one in his London flat, but they can squeeze in tightly if they try. Nick drapes his arm over Harry’s waist, reflecting wryly that this had been easier when Harry hadn’t been quite so broad. He’s got actual muscles now, isn’t nearly as delicate as he once was. Still beautiful, though. 

“Stop thinking,” Harry says. “You’re throwing off my breathing.”

“Send a boy to Los Angeles and he comes back a hippie,” Nick mutters, tightening his hold on Harry for a moment. “All right, then.” 

He doesn’t think he’ll fall asleep after sleeping so late that morning, but before he knows it, he’s startling awake to the feeling of Harry’s hand on his shoulder, his room much darker than he remembered. Harry is a dark shadow, the edge of his face lit by the hall light.

“What time is it?” Nick asks blearily, squinting up at Harry. “Is it tomorrow yet?”

“It’s half two,” Harry says softly. “I didn’t mean to stay so long. Just wanted you to know I was going so you wouldn’t wonder.”

“Sweet of you,” Nick says. “You’re leaving, then?”

“Yeah,” he says, fingers tight on Nick’s shoulder. “But I’ll call you at New Year, probably.”

“Do you have to go?” Nick asks, grogginess completely obliterating his usual filter. 

“Promised my mum I’d be home.” Harry presses a dry kiss to Nick’s cheek. “Thanks for this, Nick.”

Nick reaches up to cover Harry’s fingers with his own. “Any time, Harold.” 

Harry flashes him a smile, and then he’s slipping out of the room, soft-footed. Experienced at leaving quietly, part of Nick thinks bitterly. He winces at himself. He knows better than that, he does. He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow where Harry’s head had been. It doesn’t really smell like him, but he can imagine it does. 

 

There’s a small white box sitting on Nick’s bedside table when he manages to return to consciousness, a tiny envelope on top of it reading _Nick_ in Harry’s sloppy handwriting. Nick opens the envelope to find a card with a black and white drawing of a penguin sitting on a wrapped present. Inside, Harry’s written, _Happy Xmas xx_ and drawn a very bad Christmas tree and what Nick thinks are meant to be reindeer. He tucks the card away, already knowing it’s going to get a place of honour in his flat. 

The box fits in the palm of his hand, and Nick is momentarily afraid of opening it until he reminds himself that it can’t be too ridiculous if it’s this small. He flicks open the catch and lifts the lid to find a silver chain a bit like the one Harry wears, only instead of a cross, there’s a flat, circular pendant. When he looks closer, he sees that it’s a piece of an old map of London, right around Primrose Hill, covered in glass against a silver backing. He picks up the pendant and feels a bit of roughness along the back. On the other side, engraved in small letters along the edge are the words, _forever I will stay_. Nick doesn’t understand it in the slightest, but he clutches it tightly, wishing he had a gift for Harry better than the silk shirts he’d had shipped to Harry’s home. 

“That’s pretty,” his mum says when he comes down for lunch, nodding to the necklace. “Where’d you get it?”

Nick rubs the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, along the engraving. “It’s from Harry,” he says. “What’s on for lunch?”

He wears the necklace every day after that, even when he returns to London where odds are someone will notice and ask what it means. It’s a bit sentimental, but he likes it, and the chain is long enough he can hide it under his jumpers when he doesn’t want to be pestered by well-meaning friends and less-well-meaning gossips. 

Aimee, of course, has no compunctions about pulling it out, which is why he resigns himself to answering her questions about it when he drops by her and Ian’s flat before the New Year to give them their gifts and have dinner. He’s hardly through the door before she’s tugging out and pulling him toward her to give it a thorough examination. 

“Why are you keeping this hidden?” Aimee asks, looking at the pendant closely. Ian is cooking something that smells amazing; Aimee has really got him trained well. “It’s cute. Is it new?”

“It was a gift,” Nick says, leaning forward awkwardly while keeping his wine glass upright. “Aimee, love, you’re strangling me.”

“You can take it,” she says. “Who gave it to you? Looks like something from a vintage shop, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” Nick says. He frees his necklace from her grasp, leaning back. “Harry, actually.”

Aimee raises her eyebrows and reaches for her own wine glass. “Really.” 

“Please don’t,” Nick says. He tucks the necklace back under his jumper. “It’s just a gift. He probably found it in a charity shop and thought it was funny.” 

“If you say so.” Aimee tucks her toes under his thigh and drinks deeply. “So how’s the fam? Tell me all about it.” 

Still, he catches her watching him out of the corner of her eye as they eat dinner around the kitchen table. He drops some food to Thurston until Aimee kicks him and says, “You’ll _spoil_ him, god.” Nick catches Ian’s eye and winks. Ian shakes his head and pours Nick more wine. 

They offer him the guest room, but he’s feeling unexpectedly like an intruder, watching them smile at each other. He used to think that Aimee would always be like him, single and ready to mingle until they dropped dead of partying too hard at age forty. The first time Aimee had confessed to him she thought she loved Ian, he had been so angry he’d hardly spoken to either of them for a day. She was supposed to be his life partner in these things, his best friend, and one day he’d looked up and she had grown up. And the worst part is, she’s so happy that he can’t even be angry about it, not really. 

Instead, he goes home, cuddles Pig, and lies in bed staring at the ceiling as his telly plays quietly. He had been so teasing when Harry had expressed his fear about everyone moving on, and now he’s getting his comeuppance. He hates when that happens. 

On New Year’s Eve, he goes out with Collette and Daisy, meets up with Henry and Gillian at a club, and dances until he can barely stand up. He kisses Daisy at midnight, takes Aimee out on the dancefloor once she and Ian show up, and briefly considers abandoning her in favour of a handsome guy by the bar who’s eyeing him up. But there had been some paps outside when they’d come in, and Nick isn’t looking to be in the tabloids this particular week. Picking up used to be easier, he thinks wryly, spinning Aimee under his arm. 

Collette comes home with him and collapses in his bed without taking off her clothes. Nick huffs and gets her shoes off for her at the very least so he won’t be stabbed in the leg by her heels, before he changes into his joggers. He looks at his phone for the first time since he’d left the club and sees a number of missed messages from friends and family wishing him a good New Year. He’s scrolling through them when he sees one from _Henry Stars_ , and he pauses. 

_Happy New Year xx_ is all it says. Nick stares at it for a moment, then sends back the confetti celebration, the kissing face, and the dancing woman emojis. He adds, _You too, love_ _xx_ and sends that too before setting his phone down and rolling over to press his face into his pillow. Next to him, Collette makes a ghastly snoring noise before going quiet again. 

 

Nick announces, during their extremely hungover drunk brunch the next day, that his New Year’s resolution is to be satisfied. Collette cackles at this and says, “Is this your way of telling us you’re going to be a right slag this year?”

“He’s done that before,” Aimee says, smirking. 

Nick throws a bit of bread roll at her. “I’m trying to be serious, here,” he says plaintively. “I don’t mean like _that_ , although it wouldn’t hurt. I mean I want to be satisfied with my life. Not keep wondering about things when it’s pointless.”

“That’s rather deep,” Daisy says admiringly. “Mine’s to do fifty press-ups a day. Already failed today, haven’t I.”

“You’ve still got ten hours,” Ian says. “Do ten now, get started.”

Daisy gamely gets up from her chair. While the rest of the table is distracted counting her press ups, Aimee leans over Gillian to say, “You all right? That was a little, um, dark.”

“I’ve just been thinking, I’m thirty now—”

“Thirty-one,” Aimee says. 

“Yes, thank you.” Nick rolls his eyes and continues, “My _point_ is that I’m old enough that I should stop complaining about everything and enjoy what I’ve got, you know.” 

Gillian looks up at that and says, “Nick, the reason you are who you are today is that you’ve never stopped trying to have more. And that’s a _good_ thing.” 

“I don’t mean I’m not going to work hard or whatever,” Nick says, waving his hand. “It’s just getting a little old, being the bitter single one and that. I’ve got you lot, don’t I, and I’m happy. I really am, and I should stop trying to convince myself I’m not.”

“That’s sweet,” Aimee says. “You’re full of shit, but you’re sweet.” She kisses his cheek and sits back in her own chair. “Not that I don’t think you’re happy, but I know when you’re running from something. Don’t give up on things you want just because you think it might be hard, all right?”

“Yes, Mum,” Nick says. Gillian snorts and waves their waiter down to ask for more mimosas. 

He takes a few snapchat videos of the table while they eat, sends Fiona a selfie to make her feel bad for holidaying in Spain without him, and finally goes back into his messages to read all the texts from the night before. Liv had sent him a photo of her with her mates, and Rita had sent him a stream of emojis along with a picture of her pursing her lips at the camera. He scrolls through them, half-listening to Gillian talking about the ballet she’d seen back in December, and decides that no matter what Aimee says, he’s right. He’s lucky, he knows that, lucky in his friends and his career. When he’d dropped out of uni, the life he’s living now had been a half-imagined dream, and it’s so much more amazing in reality than he could have ever thought. He’s grateful for that, and he could stand to remember that more often.

Harry hasn’t texted him back. Nick finds he doesn’t mind as much as he might have thought. 

 

January is always a weird month. Everyone is on a come down from the holidays and remembering it’s another five months until summer, so people tend to be snappy or a little sad. Nick does his best to keep busy. He finds Harry a birthday gift at a charity shop—a clock shaped like a surprised dog—and wraps it for when he’s home next. He goes out with Rita a few times, talks Aimee into dyeing her hair purple, and goes on a few dates with a friend of Collette’s before parting ways. The sex is good, but the conversation is not, and they both know it isn’t destined to go anywhere. Nick tries to convince himself to be sad about it, but he can’t even work up a good mope. Which is a shame, because then he could get people to pamper him. 

Harry rings him in February, a few days before Valentine’s. Nick’s on the sofa watching telly with Pig, a plate of brie and crackers on his lap. “I got your birthday card,” he says when Nick picks up. “Liked it.” 

“Knew owls were your thing,” Nick says. “Did I ever say thanks for the Christmas gift?” 

“Sent a text when you remembered,” Harry says, gently teasing. “What would your mum say? Such an impolite boy.”

“Don’t you dare rat me out,” Nick says. “I still haven’t given you your birthday gift.”

“Good point,” Harry says. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. I was wondering if you’ve thought anymore about what we talked about when I saw you last.”

Nick goes through his memories, trying to recall what Harry’s on about. “What, you trying to steal my family from me?”

“No,” Harry says, huffing indignantly. “I mean you visiting me. Don’t you have a holiday coming up?”

“I’ve got a couple weeks in April,” Nick says. “That’s a bit away, though.”

“That’s perfect,” Harry says. “You can meet Louis’s baby. She’ll be a month old by then, that’s got to be old enough to have visitors.”

“Come visit Louis Tomlinson and his new baby? Louis Tomlinson, who hates me?” Nick asks through a mouthful of brie. 

“He doesn’t _hate_ you,” Harry says. “He just, you know. Despises you a bit. But it’s only because you don’t go along with his shit!” he adds when Nick starts laughing, inadvertently spraying poor Pig with cheese. “He likes being the funny one and that—oh, just say you’ll come, will you? Cuddle little Joanna and Louis will forgive all your sins.”

“Admit it, you just want to see my face,” Nick says, dusting the cheese from Pig’s head. “You’re pining, aren’t you?”

“Awfully,” Harry agrees. “Please? I’m going mental out here, and it’d be nice to see you.”

“I suppose I didn’t have anything specific planned,” Nick says. He should say no, but he already knows he won’t. He had gone out to Los Angeles the previous year too; maybe he can convince people it’s a thing now and not to read into it. “You’d better take me to the beach. I’m not planning on changing nappies the whole time I’m there.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of asking,” Harry says. There’s a voice that sounds like Niall’s on the other end and Harry says, “Sorry, got to go. But I’m holding you to that, Grimshaw.”

“I know you are, love. Bye bye,” Nick says before hanging up. Pig is looking up at him indignantly, her head still strewn with cheese. “Oh Pig,” he says, reaching down to hug her around the neck. “I’m a bloody idiot, aren’t I?”

Pig barks, which probably means she agrees. 

 

Louis’s daughter is born in February, right on schedule, and Nick gets an exclusive photo of her from Harry, all four of One Direction squeezed into the frame around her. _If I were a lesser person I could sell this for a mint_ , he tells Harry. _Looking good godfather._

 _Thanks xx_ , is all Harry says in reply. 

Occasionally, he’ll catch a glimpse of Harry in some tabloid, usually topless on the beach somewhere. He seems to be staying out of trouble and out of sight for the most part, though, and so Nick relies on Harry’s periodic texts to keep him updated. He doesn’t tell anyone except his bosses his travel plans until about a week before he leaves, wanting to put off dealing with their raised eyebrows until the last possible minute. Aimee looks extremely dubious when he asks her to check in on Pig and the flat while he’s gone, even though his dog walker will be in and out, but agrees anyway. 

“I’m going to rearrange all your records, fyi,” she tells him. “Have fun and be safe.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Aimee. If it were, it would have happened already,” Nick says, putting a sports coat in his garment bag. She sits on the end of his bed, dangling a treat to Pig as she watches him.

“I don’t mean like that, though interesting you should jump to that conclusion,” Aimee says. “I mean you’ve been wearing that necklace since Christmas.” She reaches out and snags the chain with one long nail. “Don’t think I’ve seen you without it.”

“You don’t live here anymore,” Nick points out. “What do you know?’

“You’re so full of shit,” Aimee says fondly. She tugs the chain lightly until he sits down beside her. “Hey. You know I’m just worried, right?”

“I know.” He kisses her cheek and gently untangles her hand from the necklace. “And I appreciate it. I’ll be careful, all right?”

Aimee still looks worried, but she doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead she takes out one of his shirts and says, “You look awful in this,” before tossing it aside. 

 

An anonymous black car picks him up at LAX, his name taped to the window. It’s warm enough that Nick has taken off his jumper, and he bundles it up in his lap after he slides into the backseat, the driver tossing his bags into the boot. To his surprise, the driver doesn’t take him to Harry’s, but to a modest house in a gated community somewhere north of the central city. He realizes, somewhat belatedly, that this must be where Louis’s LA house is, and when he asks the driver why they’re going there, the driver says, “Mr Styles said you would be meeting here.”

So that answers his first question. 

The driver has a key, and drops all of Nick’s bags off in the front hall before leaving, dropping the key in Nick’s hand before he goes. Nick stares at the key in confusion for a moment and turns to call, “Wait!” But the driver is already pulling down the parkway. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, looking around. It’s a lovely home, split-level and open plan, with lots of windows—all of which, Nick notes, have heavy-duty shutters attached to them. From the hall he can see into the lounge, which has a huge black couch and several open boxes scattered around. To his right is a staircase leading up to the next floor, a railing separating it from the open air. Lined up against the wall are a pair of boots that look as though they belong to Harry lined up against the wall, a pair of trainers, and several fashionable pairs of flats. Other than that, there’s no sign of life. 

“Harry?” he calls. “Harry!”

“Nick?” There’s the thump of footsteps, and Harry appears at the railing, dressed in a half-buttoned tropical print shirt and jeans. “Come on up.” 

Nick toes off his trainers and pads upstairs to join Harry. Harry looks tan and rested, happier than Nick has seen in a while. His hair is pulled back in a bun, and he isn’t wearing his necklace. Presumably to keep it out of reach from grabby baby fingers. Harry wraps his arms around Nick’s neck and tugs him in for a long hug. 

Nick closes his eyes and presses his lips to the side of Harry’s temple. “Hiya, love,” he says. “How’s that break going?”

“Better now you’re here.” Harry steps back and smiles at him. “Do you want to come meet her?”

“Lead on,” Nick says. Harry takes his hand and guides him down the hall into a large room wallpapered with yellow and pink striped paper. Standing with his back to the door, looking down into a huge white crib, is Louis. 

“Hey,” Harry says. “Look who’s here, Lou.”

Louis turns, looking wryly amused. “I thought I heard his obnoxiously loud voice.” 

“Hello to you too, Tomlinson,” Nick says. 

“Stop bickering and let me hold my goddaughter again,” Harry says, gesturing. “Nick hasn’t met her yet.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but leans down to take a small bundle from the crib. “This, Nicholas,” he says, “is Joanna.”

She looks small even in Louis's elfin arms, and even tinier still when Harry takes her, eyes huge and awed. Nick bites his thumbnail and watches Harry beam down at his goddaughter, dimples deep and lip trembling like he's struggling to keep in what he wants to say. Louis is cooing, back to ignoring Nick as usual, but when their eyes meet, his mouth quirks in what might, in certain lights, be a smile. 

Harry looks good, Nick thinks. He’s seen Harry with babies before, of course, and like his entire band he’s entirely mad for them, a sucker for a pouty lip and a chubby face. It’s somehow different watching him fawn over tiny Joanna. Maybe it’s that his smile is so bloody wide, or that he’s so gentle and careful with her. Maybe, Nick acknowledges to himself, it’s just that he’s more or less in love with Harry now and he hadn’t been before. 

“Oi, Grimshaw,” Louis says, startling Nick. “You want to have a go?”

“At what?” Nick asks blankly. 

“At holding my baby, you idiot,” Louis says. “Harry, tell Grimshaw he can hold my baby. He’s looking like he might steal her otherwise.”

“I would not,” Nick says indignantly, but he’s not entirely sure he’s telling the truth. He was thinking of stealing Harry _and_ wee Joanna, honestly. He holds his arms out so Harry can gently settle her against his chest. 

She’s really a lovely baby. She’s got the little wrinkled face all babies seem to be born with, but she’s got Louis’s startlingly blue eyes, that much is clear, and she’s so wide-eyed like she wants to take everything in. Nick has held babies before, of course—he’s got two godchildren of his own—but there’s something particularly surreal about holding the child of Louis Tomlinson, who in Nick’s head is permanently eighteen and an utter twat. Although for someone who once chucked a box of tea at his head, Louis is really behaving quite well. 

“She’s a beautiful baby,” Nick says. Louis preens, which Nick puts a stop to by adding, “She must take after her mother.”

“Oi,” Louis says.

“Play nice,” Harry says mildly. “I’ve got some prezzies for her in the car, all right?” 

Joanna starts fussing when Harry leaves the room, and Louis reclaims her from Nick before Nick can even wonder what he should do. “Are you fussy?” Louis asks in a high, sing-song voice. “Did Uncle Nick scare you? With his great big head?”

“Hey,” Nick says. “You heard Harry, we’re meant to be nice.”

“I haven’t said anything about your hair,” Louis says, still in that same high voice. To Nick’s mild dismay, it seems to be working, as Joanna settles down easily. “There you go, sweetheart.”

“Not even two months old and you’re already teaching her to have a go at me,” Nick says. “I have to applaud your commitment.”

“Someone has to do it.” Louis looks straight at Nick for a moment, eyes narrowed. “All joking aside, it’s good of you to come out here for Harry.”

“He asked,” Nick says, at a loss for what to say in the face of sincerity from Louis Tomlinson. 

“Yeah,” Louis says. “He did, didn’t he?”

And Nick isn’t sure what to say to that, either, so he stays silent as Louis bounces his daughter gently, rubbing his nose against her cheek. Nick briefly feels a surge of envy that Louis had all this fall into his lap, and reminds himself that it must have been a shock for him, that Louis is probably struggling more than he lets on. It won’t do to be jealous of Louis becoming a father before him; Nick has only himself to blame on that front, really. He could have tried to settle down, but he hasn’t exactly made the effort.

“Don’t tell Payno I said so, but he was right stroppy about not being godfather,” Louis says after a moment. He looks so at ease with little Joanna on his shoulder, which given his seemingly endless number of sisters makes sense. “But Harry—well, he was my best mate first, and besides, I thought he might need it more. He needs something to hold onto. Besides, she won’t be my last.”

“Ready for another already?” Nick teases, but Louis doesn’t rise to the bait like he usually would, just looks soft and fond. 

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Jo’s going to need a little brother, I think.”

“With your family history, I reckon it’s going to be all girls,” Nick says. 

“Maybe,” Louis says easily. “It’s funny, like, I did it because I thought Harry needed an anchor, but then he went and found you all by himself.”

Nick doesn’t know how to respond to that. Despite what everyone thinks, Harry and Nick have never shagged. Never snogged, hardly ever kissed even when counting the chaste pecks on the lips that Nick exchanges with half his friends anyway. Nick knows better than to even tempt fate with that; he knows what he likes, and he knows that Harry is it. Letting himself have anything more than what he’d give to any of his other friends is how broken hearts happen, and he’s too old to be fucked up over a pop star. 

“Maybe Harry knows how to take care of himself?” Nick suggests. 

“Maybe Harry’s finally figured out what he wants,” Louis counters. 

Nick shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I do,” Louis says. “I knew Harry before and after he met you, all right? I’ve never seen him act like he does with you. You, Nicholas Grimshaw, have the unique honour of being one of the few people I genuinely believe could break Harry’s heart. So be careful, would you?”

Nick stares at him. He hasn’t been this much at a loss for words since—scratch that, he can’t remember _ever_ being this lost for words. Louis shakes his head and holds out his daughter. 

“Hold her, you look a right tit standing there with your mouth open,” Louis says. “Think about it. I’m going to help Hazza with the presents, since apparently that takes half an hour.”

Nick takes Joanna and watches as Louis leaves. He looks down at her small, scrunched face, and says, “Your dad’s a strange one, I hope you know that.”

Joanna yawns, which Nick takes as agreement. He hums her one of Rita’s songs as he paces around the room, looking at the photos. There are pictures of Louis’s family as well as photos of someone who Nick assumes is Joanna’s mother. He wonders if she’s home, or if Louis being around lets her have a few days off every now and then. After he’s moved onto the greatest hits of One Direction, he realizes Joanna has dropped off to sleep. He sets her inside the crib and leans against the corner to watch her sleep. 

“What are you doing, you weirdo?” Louis calls cheerfully. Nick turns to see him looking inside the room. “Come on, Hazza’s making lunch. The baby monitor’s on.”

They eat out on Louis’s back patio. Bree joins them about halfway through, apparently having been napping upstairs. Harry makes introductions before sitting back down next to Nick, moving his chair closer than is necessary. It’s all very Hollywood, talking about interior design and the search for a nanny while eating kale salad and tofu. Nick is fairly sure that Harry is drinking wheatgrass. 

“You’re being quiet,” Harry says, suddenly putting a hand on his thigh and startling Nick out of his thoughts. “Everything all right?” 

“Jetlag,” Nick lies. He wishes he had taken his sunglasses out of his bag. “Am I staying here?”

“Fuck no,” Louis says. Bree stifles a laugh behind her hand and reaches for her glass of lemonade. “We don’t have room, anyway. Or we have room, but no bed in it. I’ve got the only guest at the moment.”

“Scrambling for excuses?” Nick asks, raising his eyebrows. “It’s okay, you can say you can’t stand the sight of me.”

Louis purses his lips and gives Nick a very unimpressed glare. Harry squeezes Nick’s knee and reaches over to the bottle of wine sitting in the middle of the table. 

“Come on,” he says. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s not do this.” 

Nick puts his hand over Harry’s. “All right,” he says. “We’ll be polite.”

After lunch, Harry drives Nick to his place, narrating the entire drive with rambling stories about getting tacos there and taking Niall golfing there. It doesn’t do much for Harry’s already abysmal driving, which is exacerbated further by the aggressive drivers on the LA freeways. Nick tries not to be too obvious about bracing himself against the door. Harry takes that kind of thing personally.

Harry’s house is far too large for just one person, and it’s distressingly modern, full of sharp angles and mirrors in unexpected places. The last time Nick had stayed here, he had got up for a wee and nearly pissed himself thinking there was a burglar in the house, but it was only his reflection. The best feature of the whole place, in Nick’s opinion, is the pool, a beautifully-tiled body of clear water. Nick dives in as soon as he’s changed into trunks, and Harry joins him, shaking his hair loose like he’s in a shampoo commercial. 

“Did you and Louis have a nice chat?” Harry asks idly, paddling around the deep end. “I told him I wanted you two to talk a bit.”

“Is that why you left?” Nick asks. He runs his hands through his hair, thinks about Louis saying he’s one of the few people who could break Harry’s heart. “It was interesting. Dunno about nice.”

Harry doesn’t look quite satisfied by this, but he drops the subject in favor of lunging at Nick and trying to dunk him. Nick squawks and grabs hold of Harry’s wrists. Harry grins, disarmingly brilliant up close. His eyelashes are clumped together from the water, and his eyes seem even brighter in the afternoon sun. 

“I’m really very glad you’re here,” Harry says. He brushes his lips across Nick’s and looks up through those lashes, coy as anything. Then he tugs his wrists away and dives beneath the water. Nick watches him streak away along the pool bottom and reminds himself to breathe. 

 

Dinner is a quiet affair in Harry’s kitchen. They share half a bottle of wine, talk aimlessly about mutual friends and what Harry’s been doing on his break—writing a lot, apparently, and traveling up and down the coast taking photos—before Nick nudges Harry aside to do the washing up. Harry leans against the counter and watches him with an expression Nick can’t read. The moment Nick’s placed the last of the dishes on the rack to dry, Harry takes his hands and draws him in. 

“Harry,” Nick says. “Don’t do this.”

“You don’t know what I’m doing,” Harry says. He lifts the necklace from Nick’s chest and taps the pendant lightly with his thumb. “You like it, then?”

“Hardly take it off,” Nick admits. “What does it mean?”

“Something I’ve been working on,” Harry says. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Dangerous.”

“Nick, please.” Harry drops his hand to rest against Nick’s sternum. “I’m trying to tell you something.” 

Nick doesn’t want to know. He desperately needs to know. He can’t let Harry continue. “Harry, let’s not do anything too rash.”

“I love you,” Harry says, as easily as he might say, _It’s raining_ , or _I quite fancy a kiwi_. “It’s funny, like. It kind of just crept up on me.” 

Nick swallows hard and reaches up to lace his fingers with Harry’s. “Why?”

“Why or why now?” Harry brings Nick’s knuckles to his lips. “Do you want a list or a demonstration?”

“I loved you practically the moment I met you,” Nick says. “And now you decided you love me? Forgive me for being startled, Haz.”

“Don’t do that,” Harry says. “Just tell me you don’t want this.”

“I’ve never been very good at lying to you,” Nick says, closing his eyes. “Don’t make me.”

“So don’t lie,” Harry says. “Nick. Look at me.” When Nick looks, Harry is smiling, cautious and a little scared. “I love you.” 

“It’s just this break,” Nick tries. “You’re all turned around. You miss touring and your boys, or whatever. You’re not hooking up like usual, of course you’re feeling a bit weird. I’m just here.”

“Sometimes, you are so determined to rob yourself of a good thing it actually amazes me,” Harry says. “Listen to me closely, Nicholas. I like sex. I like it a lot. But when I think about coming home to someone, I only think about you. It’s been my favourite part of coming back home for ages. Years.”

Nick laughs despite himself and covers his face with his free hand. “All right, let’s say I believe you. What now?”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, drawing it out. “I’d quite like to suck you, if you’re interested. You’re clean, aren’t you? I am.”

“Yes, I am, but you know you don’t have to tell me you love me to get me in bed, Harold,” Nick says lightly. “I’m dead easy, surely you know that.”

Harry’s smile fades slightly. “You’re right, you are rubbish at lying to me,” he says. He leans in, pressing their linked hands against Nick’s chest. “Do you think I’m lying about loving you?”

“I think you believe it,” Nick says after a moment. “Harry, you’re so young.”

“Plenty of people my age are already married with kids,” Harry says. “My age has nothing to do with loving you. Never has.”

“Christ,” Nick mutters. His chest is tight, his heart racing. He should stop him now; he could, he knows, and he should. But it feels like something in him is coming to life. Harry loves him. _Harry_ loves him, and maybe he won’t always, but he does now. He closes his eyes and nods. “All right, then.”

When the kiss comes, it’s like a sledgehammer to the chest. Nick squeezes Harry’s hand tightly and gropes blindly for him, dragging him in by the shirt so Harry’s hips are flush to his. Nick’s possessive, is the thing, when it comes to those things he really loves, and if Harry is here—if Harry _loves_ him, Nick is going to cling to him until he can’t anymore

Harry kisses like he’s starved for it. His free hand digs into Nick’s shoulder, gripping tight enough to bruise, and he arches into Nick’s touch easily. Some instinct in Nick takes over at the feeling of someone in his arm, at the long press of a thigh between his legs, and he pulls Harry in close. Nick gets his hands under Harry’s shirt, running along the softness of his lower belly to his ribs. Harry shivers under his touch, and isn’t that amazing, that for all Harry is no blushing virgin, Nick can still make him shake with pleasure. 

Nick opens Harry’s trousers, finds that he isn’t wearing pants, and snorts, pulling back. “Really?”

“Hey,” Harry says, tugging at Nick’s shirt. “Easier, right?”

“One way of putting it,” Nick says. He pushes Harry’s trousers down far enough to wrap his hand around Harry’s cock. Harry bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed. “This good, love?”

“Tighter,” Harry says, and Nick complies. It’s a bit dry, probably a little rough, and Nick takes a moment to smear the precome beading at the head of Harry’s cock down the shaft. Harry braces himself on the kitchen counter, pushing his hips forward, and Nick lets him fuck up into his hand. He kisses Harry again, amazed that he’s allowed, and trails his mouth across Harry’s cheek and jaw, finding that Harry’s sensitive right under his ear, and that he likes Nick’s tongue against his skin. 

Harry gasps his name, one hand coming up to clutch at Nick’s hair, and he drags him back to the kiss. His mouth is lax with pleasure, hardly any coordination, and Nick loves it, loves the soft noises Harry makes when Nick tightens his grip on Harry’s cock, loves every inch of him. Harry bites Nick’s lip when he comes, arching off the counter and splashing up Nick’s wrist and forearm. Nick keeps hold of him until he stops shaking, and then he pulls away to wash his hand off in the sink. 

“Nick,” Harry says again. When Nick looks around, Harry’s sliding to his knees, trousers still half down, his cock still out. “Lean against the counter, will you?”

“Oh,” Nick says, stupidly, and he does, watching as Harry unzips his shorts and pulls them down. It’s almost as though it’s happening to someone else, because Nick still can’t quite believe it, even as Harry is taking out Nick’s cock and smiling at it, fucking _beaming_ , and flicking his tongue out to taste. Tongue first, like he does everything. Nick bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. 

“God, I love this bit,” Harry says, breath teasing over Nick’s cock. He has his hand loosely wrapped around the base as he looks up at Nick with that coy, smug expression he gets when something goes his way. “Figuring out what people like. It’s a thrill, innit?” 

Harry's always been a dreadful hedonist. It was one of the things Nick liked about him from the very start. He ought to have known, really, that it would have carried over to sex, too; that of course the reason Harry liked sex so much is that he liked the sensual pleasure of it all, the exploration and the luxury, and not just getting the itchy feeling of needing to come out of his system. Nick likes it too, but rarely does he have the chance to really get to know someone. He wonders if Harry means it. 

“You can put your hands in my hair,” Harry adds. “I like it.” He takes Nick in his mouth before Nick has a chance to reflect on that remarkable statement, and Nick gasps loud enough that the noise echoes around Harry’s cavernous kitchen. 

Harry’s hair is that strange chlorine-tacky, not quite slipping through Nick’s fingers when he settles his hand at the back of Harry’s head. He doesn’t push, though part of him is aching to; he wants to see what Harry does. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t ever imagined this. It had never been a very detailed imagining, just a fleeting thought every now and then when he was drunk enough that he’d lost his strict control on his Harry thoughts. Just looking at the pink bow of Harry’s mouth as he ate a banana and thinking, _I bet he’d give marvellous head_. And he does, oh he does. Nick’s going to come faster than he has in ages just from Harry’s mouth on his cock. 

“Harry,” he says, “love—” He tugs lightly at Harry’s hair, trying to give him a hint, but Harry just flicks a look up from under his lashes, and Nick could _swear_ he’s smirking, and then Harry is going down, oh, _god_ , even further, and Nick is coming apart, spilling down Harry’s throat. His thighs are shaking, and it’s only the hard edge of the counter pressed into his back that’s keeping him upright. 

“Fuck,” Harry says as he pulls off. There’s a smear of come on his bottom lip, and his voice is absolutely wrecked. Nick isn’t sure whether to be proud or horrified. “That was amazing.” His eyes are shining as he leans in to nuzzle Nick’s inner thigh. “Come to bed with me.”

“Don’t think I could get it up again, love,” Nick says. “I’m not that young anymore.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head, getting to his feet easily. Ah, to have young knees again. “I just want to sleep next to you again.”

And what is Nick supposed to say to that? He does up his trousers, holds his hand out to Harry, and says, “Lead the way, then.”

Harry’s bed is massive, neatly made, and covered in pillows. Nick reclines against them while Harry disappears into the en suite bathroom to shower. He snapchats a picture of his feet to Aimee and Fiona, texts his mum to let her know he arrived safely in LA, and then scrolls through Twitter so he isn’t thinking about Harry saying _I love you_. His thumbs are shaking, he notices. 

The mattress dips beside him, which is all the warning he gets before Harry’s wet head lands on his shoulder. “Hey,” Harry says, dragging his hand up Nick’s belly to rest at the base of his ribcage. “Did you want to shower?”

“Probably should do,” Nick says. He sets his phone aside and steels himself to look at Harry. As he’d feared, Harry is naked and smiling that disarming smile that still weakens Nick’s resolve even after knowing him for years. “Do I smell?”

Harry sniffs exaggeratedly and scrunches up his face. “A bit,” he says. “Not that I mind, but you might come morning.”

He’s right about that. Nick sighs loudly and starts to push himself up, but Harry presses down against his ribs, keeping him place. “Love, if I’m going to shower, you’re going to have let me get up,” Nick says. 

Harry ignores him and bears down a little more, staring at Nick intently. It’s startlingly arousing, realizing that Harry has put on enough muscle now to manhandle him. Harry isn’t the beautiful boy Nick had met years ago; he’s fully himself now, more comfortable in his own skin than Nick has ever known him to be. _Maybe Harry’s finally figured out what he wants_ , Louis had said. 

Harry kisses him, slipping his tongue between Nick’s lips teasingly, and pulls back. “Okay,” he says. “Now you can go shower.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Nick says, wincing when his voice cracks. He’s thirty-one years old; he can survive a kiss. “Do you have anything for me to wear?”

“Grab anything,” Harry says. He stretches out as Nick gets up, like a cat seeking the warm spot. Nick doesn’t see a single tan line. He doesn’t want to know why not. “Though I don’t know why you need anything.”

“Not all of us are nudists,” Nick says tartly. He takes one last look at Harry’s long, sun-dark limbs, the sharp cut of his hips, the stretch of skin over his ribs. The soft curve of his cock, which Nick now knows by touch. 

He turns sharply on his heel to stop himself from climbing back in bed and hurries into the bathroom. It’s just as absurdly modern as the rest of the house, but Nick deeply appreciates the futuristic showerhead with its powerful spray. He stands under it for longer than strictly necessary, luxuriating in the pressure, the almost ticklish feeling of the water hitting his back. 

He returns to Harry dry, moisturized, and clothed in a pair of Harry’s pants. It’s nothing they haven’t done before—at this point, their wardrobes have mixed enough that Nick sometimes can’t remember if a shirt belonged to him or Harry first—but the way Harry licks his lips is. Harry hooks his fingers under the elastic waistband and snaps it against Nick’s hips, smiling wickedly. 

“I’m going to enjoy taking these off you,” Harry says. Nick laughs and straddles Harry’s thighs, amused despite the low level anxiety thrumming through them. 

“Is that why I’m here?” he teases. “International booty call?”

“Not the only reason,” Harry says, expression abruptly going serious. “I mean, I hoped. But mostly I wanted to see you.” 

Nick has to kiss him for that, balancing himself over Harry. Harry reaches up to wrap his hands around Nick’s wrists. He grips tight as though he’s afraid Nick will disappear otherwise. “You’ll be the death of me,” Nick says when they part. He nudges his nose against Harry’s cheek, pecks the corner of his mouth. 

“The little death,” Harry quips. He gasps when Nick runs a hand up his bare thigh, his legs falling open to him. “ _Nick_.”

Nothing will be as sweet as the sound of his name falling from a partner’s lips, and Harry’s husky voice only makes it better. Nick scrapes his teeth down Harry’s neck, licks along the edges of his swallow tattoos, down to the moth over his stomach, noting Harry tensing at the touch of his mouth. Harry’s getting hard again, Nick can feel it against his chest, and Nick wants to suck him off so badly his mouth is watering at the thought. 

“This okay?” Nick asks as he shifts down to kneel between Harry’s spread legs. God, but Harry’s got a lovely cock, nice-sized and plain _pretty_ , the flushed head peeking out of his foreskin. Nick wraps his hand loosely around the base and looks up to find Harry watching him with huge eyes and a wet, open mouth. “Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes, _please_ —”

God, Nick thinks, I could ruin him. And he takes Harry into his mouth. 

He isn’t naïve enough to think this is Harry’s first time in any sense of the term. Harry has always attracted people to him, effortlessly won them over with a smile and a bad joke about fruit. From what Harry’s told him, even before X Factor and One Direction, he was hardly hurting for takers, and he’s been spoiled for choice ever since. He’s even told Nick about some of his partners when Nick asks, though often he tends to smile and say, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Nicholas.” Harry has even been in love before: Taylor, certainly, and maybe Caroline before that, possibly others Nick doesn’t know about. 

But Nick knows what he’s good at, and there’s a reason that, as awkward as he’d been in his early twenties, he had been good on the pull: word gets around. And he’s bloody _good_ at sex. 

Harry is swearing steadily above him, hardly above a mumble, but Nick can hear enough to get the gist. It’s flattering, of course, and it makes Nick that much more determined to hear Harry fall apart. He keeps his hand fisted at the base of Harry’s cock and pulls off to mouth at Harry’s balls, back toward his ass. Harry cants his hips up, breathing harshly, and Nick presses his finger against Harry’s hole. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry gasps out. He tries to bear down on Nick’s fingers, but there’s too much resistance. Harry shifts beneath him, flailing out his hand toward the nightstand, and after a moment throws a bottle of lube at Nick’s head. Nick rubs the spot it hit and snorts. 

“Careful, love,” he says, and he bites the crease of Harry’s thigh for emphasis. Harry laughs breathlessly. 

His laugh turns into moans when Nick slicks up his fingers and eases the tip of his middle finger inside him. Harry’s erection has flagged slightly, which Nick takes as a personal affront, and he goes back to sucking him, using his hard-earned dexterity to fuck Harry from both directions. Harry whines, hands clawing at the bedsheets, and he outright sobs when Nick works his index and ring fingers into him, too. He’s so fucking responsive, twitching at every movement of his fingers or tongue. 

When Nick sets to fucking him properly, wrist twinging slightly from the angle, Harry kicks him in the ribs as he tries to arch into it. Nick laughs, chokes, and has to pull off Harry’s dick to catch his breath. Harry’s grinning sheepishly down at him when he glances up. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, voice hoarse. “Do that again.”

So Nick fucks his fingers into Harry, angling them up, and swallowing Harry down until his cock is nudging the back of Nick’s throat. Harry is making lovely keening noises, his thighs shaking around Nick’s face, and his hips are bowing off the mattress. Nick relaxes, letting Harry push into his mouth, and Harry says, “Nick, I’m coming—” 

Nick doesn’t have enough time to pull off, so he sucks Harry through it, past the point where Harry starts to soften. He withdraws himself slowly, though Harry still moans when Nick pulls his fingers out, and he sits back, massaging his jaw with his clean hand. Harry looks utterly wrecked, his limp cock damp with come and spit, face flushed, and his skin shiny with sweat. His eyes are closed, mouth turned up slightly, and that little furrow between his brows is gone. 

Nick gets to his feet and is about to return to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth and wash his hands when Harry suddenly reaches out to snag his wrist. “Where are you going?” he asks, and _god_ , if Nick had thought Harry’s voice was rough before, it sounds like he’s been through the wringer now, in a good way. 

“Just to the loo, love, I’ll be back,” Nick says. He sounds pretty hoarse, too. Good thing neither of them has work. “Would you like a flannel to clean off with?”

“Yes please,” Harry says, polite as can be. 

Nick tries to avoid his reflection in the mirror as he’s washing his hands, but he can see how red his mouth is, how he looks well-fucked and _happy_. He touches his lower lip, swallowing the taste of Harry from the back of his throat, and wonders what on earth he’s going to tell Aimee. What a disaster. What a glorious, wonderful disaster. 

Harry accepts Nick’s offering of a damp flannel with a small smile and sets about dabbing at himself. When he’s finished, he throws it in the direction of his laundry hamper, and misses by about a foot. 

“I’ll get it in the morning,” he says when he sees Nick about to get up again. “Stop moving about, will you? I want you to be here with me.”

Nick hesitates, then gingerly lies down beside Harry. This shouldn’t be any different from any other time they’ve shared a bed, he tells himself. Harry’s even been naked before, since he eschews clothes whenever possible. Yet he knows it’s different. Harry pulls Nick to him, turning onto his side so that Nick is curled around him. His skin is hot beneath Nick’s hands. Nick loves him so much he can hardly breathe. 

“Thank you for being here,” Harry says, curling his fingers over Nick’s left hand. He brings it to his mouth, kisses Nick’s fingertips, mouths over his knuckles. “Sleep tight.”

“You too,” Nick says. Harry’s breathing slows and steadies, his grip on Nick’s hand going lax. Nick keeps his eyes closed tight and wills himself to sleep. 

 

Harry is still asleep when Nick wakes in the morning, thrown off by travel and his early morning routine. He watches the sunlight shift across the ceiling until Harry stirs and cranes his neck to look over his bare shoulder at Nick. He’s smiling already, dimple peeking out. 

“Morning,” Harry says. 

“That’s my line,” Nick says. He kisses Harry’s arm. “What was your plan for today? Anything in particular?”

“There’s a farmer’s market I quite like going to,” Harry says. “I need some things if we’re having Louis and the lads over for dinner.”

“We are?” Nick asks, wondering if he’d blacked out when those plans were made. “When was that decided?”

“Yesterday, when—oh, that was just me and Louis.” Harry laughs and ducks his head. “Sorry, I thought I had mentioned. It isn’t until Saturday, anyway. Liam and Niall will be in town for a bit to see Joanna, so I thought I’d have everyone over.” 

“While I’m here?” Nick asks. He tries to think of how to say, _Do you want them to know we’re fucking?_ without sounding unbearably crass. He isn’t sure what, if anything, Harry has told them, and he knows if he were in their shoes he would be curious. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, unless you don’t want to,” Harry says. That little crease between his eyebrows is back. Nick hates it. “I just thought it might be nice.”

Nice, Nick thinks hysterically, is not how he’d describe seeing all of bloody One Direction for dinner the week he starts fucking Harry Styles. It’s almost like meeting the family, only worse because Anne and Gemma like him well enough already. “All right,” Nick says. “But don’t expect me to cook.”

“I’d never make that mistake,” Harry says, breaking into a full smile now, and oh, Nick is so fucked. “You’re relegated to chopping, babe.”

Nick kisses Harry’s shoulder and rolls away to get up. “Want me to make you a cuppa?”

“Yes, please,” Harry says, “and then we’ll go. I like to get there early. Better selection.”

Nick decides not to dignify that bit of Hollywood nonsense with a response. He takes his phone with him to the kitchen, checks his texts and snapchat while he waits for the kettle to boil, and avoids opening the text from Aimee. Instead he replies to Henry, who’s asking after Harry, and goes through Harry’s cupboards until he finds the tea and mugs. 

Harry stumbles down, dressed only in a pair of pants, around the time the tea has finished, and Nick passes a mug without a word. Harry beams at him, curls his hand around it, and says, “I’ve missed this. Waking up with you, I mean.”

“It was a bit different back then, wasn’t it?” Nick says. “Unless I’m forgetting something in my old age.”

“Nah,” Harry says. “But I’ve always liked spending time with you. You’re lovely.”

“I’m not,” Nick says, suddenly too tired for this. “I’m selfish and needy and far too old for you.”

“I haven’t gotten tired of you yet,” Harry says, beginning to frown again. “Nick, don’t do that. You’re rubbish at taking compliments, you know that?”

“I am not,” Nick says. “Haven’t you heard me on the radio? I compliment myself all the time.”

“Always in that _voice_ , though, like you’re trying to be sure everyone knows you’re being ironic,” Harry says. “You’re lovely. Now say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Nick parrots back. 

Harry smiles again and leans over to kiss Nick, bracing one tea-warmed hand on Nick’s hip. “There you go,” he says. “Wasn’t so hard.”

The last person Nick had slept with and spent time with afterward, apart from Douglas in Majorca and the occasional hook-up he’s had since, had been named Ralph, pronounced _Rafe_ because he’s proper posh, and had been as sarcastic as Nick could be. They had fucked around for a few months before having a raging row over Nick’s schedule, which _was_ insane, and Ralph had flounced off and never called again. Nick doesn’t _do_ sincere. None of his friends do, they’re all rubbish shallow entertainment people. Except Harry. 

Alexa once said Harry was like a lighthouse, and there was something to that, how he tended to shine so brightly it was hard to miss him. But Nick, now, thinks Harry’s more like the sun, and Nick’s helplessly in his orbit. Here he is, beautiful and young and fabulously wealthy and famous. He could have just about anyone he fancied, and last night he told Nick he loved him. 

“So where’s this farmer’s market, then?” Nick asks, lifting his own cup of tea to his mouth and making a face. “Is there some place I can get coffee along the way?”

Harry laughs and agrees to take him to some yuppie fair trade coffee shop on the way. Nick makes to throw his cup down the sink, but Harry takes it, shaking his head, and shoos him upstairs to get dressed. Nick tries to imagine how people dress for a farmer’s market and settles on one of his more ripped jeans, a plaid shirt, and sunglasses he’s fairly sure used to belong to Collette. He goes to tuck his necklace under the collar of his shirt, then stops and rubs his thumb over the back. He leaves it out. 

Harry, it turns out, has opted for a henley that probably belonged to Liam at some point, a snapback that surely belongs to Niall, and jeans Nick _knows_ he stole from Nick’s closet. “Do you actually own any clothes of your own?” Nick asks when Harry comes downstairs, keys in his hand and sunglasses already on. “Or do you just nick other people’s?”

“These boots are mine,” Harry says, sticking his foot out to show off a sparkly boot. “Besides, I’m trying to go incognito.” He pulls up his hair into a ponytail and tugs it out the back of his hat. “Unrecognizable, right?”

“Absolutely,” Nick says, deciding not to voice the thought that a farmer’s market seemed like a place where Harry was unlikely to get swarmed. He’d taken Harry places they thought would be safe before, but in this age of Twitter, all it takes is one person snapping a picture. “Let’s get going, then. I’m peckish.”

The coffee shop is just as hilariously California as Nick had thought it would be, and he gets coffee with almond milk just because before rejoining Harry in the car. He looks absolutely ridiculous, completely unlike himself, and Nick is totally, madly, arse over teakettle in love. 

Harry takes his time at the farmer’s market, smiling at everyone and asking after their families—of course he knows everyone’s names—and inspecting every piece of fruit like he’s Health and Safety. Nick takes the opportunity to wander through the stalls, looking at the freshly made bread, the vendor hocking fish, a flower stand rioting with colour, the sandwich stand doing a roaring trade. The market is at the top of a hill, and from the crest Nick can see the ocean. He lives on an island, he shouldn’t be this breathless every time he sees the Pacific, but it really is something, so vast and blue, and the sky is so clear. 

“Hey,” Harry says in his ear. Nick yelps, whirling around and nearly falling over, clutching at his chest. “Sorry!”

“Christ, you gave me a right scare,” Nick gasps. “I’m not as young as I once was, you know.”

“Yes, you’re practically ancient,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “Here, look what I got—some fruit and veg, mostly, but did you see anything you fancied?”

“Maybe some of the buns,” Nick says, taking Harry’s canvas bag from him, and following him back down among the stalls. “And we should probably get some protein. Maybe do a barbecue. Love a good barbecue.”

“Good idea,” Harry says. He flirts outrageously with the elderly woman—Debbie—selling the buns, tells her about his own time as a baker because he is still awfully proud of it, and introduces Nick to her when she asks, “Now who is _this_ tall drink of something?”

“Hiya,” Nick says, holding out his hand to shake. “You see Harry a lot then?”

“He comes by every week,” she says, beaming. “Are you his young man, then?” She affects a passable imitation of Harry’s accent on the last bit, and Nick can’t help but smile. 

“I suppose,” Nick says, “though I’m not so young these days.”

“None of us are,” Debbie says with a sigh. “Have a good day, Harry, and nice meeting you!”

“What was that?” Nick asks as they walk off, now laden down with more bags. “You been flirting with bakers again?”

“Jealous?” Harry asks, smirking. “She’s nice, isn’t she? She’s always going on about how I need to eat more.”

Nick shakes his head and says, “She should see you put away a Sunday roast,” before putting his hand on Harry’s elbow to guide him around a divot in the grass. Harry barters with the butcher for what seems like far too much meat until Nick remembers that if _Harry_ can go through food, then Niall can go through even more. Must have a hollow leg. Probably where all the beer goes, too. 

“Well, that was nicely domestic,” Nick says when they head to the car, laden down with more food than is likely necessary. “What else have you got planned for me today? Need to buy curtains? Maybe some babyproofing materials for when little Joanna comes by?”

“No, although that’s not a bad idea,” Harry says thoughtfully. “I dunno, I quite fancied going to the beach. I know a place that’s usually pretty quiet.” 

That sounds nice to Nick, and they adjourn back to Harry’s to get their beachwear. Harry packs them a little cooler of food, no booze despite Nick’s attempt to wheedle him into it, and they pack up back into the car. Nick rolls down the windows as they set out, wondering if he could ever live out in LA. It’s irrelevant, really; as long as he’s got a job at the BBC he’s unlikely to move, but being here is making him think about what he’ll do later. He doesn’t know if he could be happy in LA, despite all of its attractions. He’d miss his friends too much, and he loves London. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

“Everything all right?” Harry calls over the sound of the wind. “You’re being quiet.”

“I’m great,” Nick says. “Keep your eyes on the road, Harold.”

“So nervous, all the time,” Harry says, swerving back into his lane.

Harry’s right; the beach he takes them to is secluded, without much surf, which is probably why it isn’t as popular. There are a few families there, and one girl asks to take a picture with Harry, but when Harry asks her not to tweet it until that evening, she blushes and promises she won’t. Nick shakes his head, following Harry down the shore. 

“She’s probably going to text all her friends,” he tells Harry. 

“We’ll make a swift getaway,” Harry says. He shakes out his towel onto the sand and begins divesting himself of clothes. “Pass me the suncream.”

They take turns helping each other put on the suncream. Harry gets a big smear of it over his nose, and Nick can’t help laughing as he reaches out to rub it in. Harry scrunches up his face, but he’s smiling. 

“Race you to the water,” Harry says, and he takes off before Nick even has a chance to respond. Nick yelps and chases after him, out until the water reaches his knees, and then he tackles Harry, the two of them going down with a splash. Harry’s laughing wildly when they surface, his hair all over his face like a particularly unkempt merman, and he’s so beautiful Nick has to dunk him again. 

The water is bracingly cold, enough that Nick doesn’t want to stay out for too long, but he takes the opportunity to float on his back a bit, staring up at the perfectly blue sky. Harry splashes around next to him before apparently swimming off, because when Nick lets his feet touch the sand again, Harry’s off in the distance. He seems to sense Nick’s gaze, because he turns around and lifts his hand in greeting before diving back into the water. 

They eat lunch while they’re still soaking wet and dripping. Harry’s packed them salad and what seems like an entire orchard. There’s juice, too—peach, apparently—and Nick gets distracted staring at a drop of it on Harry’s mouth, wondering if he’d taste sweet just now. 

Nick lies down to get some sun after they’ve eaten and dozes off despite his best intentions. When he wakes, Harry has a great big book on his knees and his hair is a complete mess from the salt water. Nick turns over onto his stomach and says, “What are you reading?”

Harry glances at him. “Book Gemma recommended,” he says. “Dunno what I think so far, but I’m only a hundred pages in.”

“Only a hundred pages, he says,” Nick mutters. “I see how it is, your band goes on holiday and you become a posh scholar or whatever, is that what it is?”

“Have to fill the days somehow,” Harry says. He sets the book aside and scoots down until he’s lying on his side looking at Nick. “Can we talk now, or are you too busy trying to get a tan?”

“I’m sorry that we’re not all bronzed Adonises like you,” Nick says. “Is that the plural, or would it be Adonii?” 

“I like Adonii,” Harry says. “Answer the question.”

Nick looks around, but there’s no one within earshot, and the ocean and wind is loud enough that their voices are unlikely to carry. “Okay, let’s talk.”

“I just wanted to be sure everything was okay after last night,” Harry says. “You’ve been really quiet.”

Nick considers lying about jetlag again or deflecting, but it just seems pointless, now. “I suppose I’m just getting used to it, the idea of you loving me. It was fine. Better than fine, Harry, I—” This is the part he doesn’t know how to say, not with the earnestness Harry can summon up. “It was perfect.”

“Oh.” Harry smiles and ducks his head. “That’s good. I liked it, you know. You’re good in bed. Always thought you must be.”

“I’ve had years of practice,” Nick says. “And hang on, what do you mean by that?”

“You got those models somehow,” Harry says, eyes wide and faux-innocent. Nick rolls his eyes and throws a bit of sand at him. “Anyway, I’ve seen you on the pull. You do this thing, where you just sort of turn it on and whoever you’re talking to completely melts. It’s like a magic trick.”

“Is that what did it?” Nick asks, lowering his head back down to the towel. “You saw me pull some lucky bloke and thought, _Hang on, I want a piece of that, too_?”

“A bit,” Harry says, which, Nick had been joking. “But Nick, I’ve been wondering—you said you used to be in love with me. Were you being serious? You were dead good at hiding it.”

“Really?” Nick raises his eyebrows. “I thought it was obvious. Even the papers said stuff about it.”

“But that’s the papers,” Harry says reasonably. “Mostly everything they say is rubbish.”

Harry isn’t wrong about that, but the point still stands. “Also probably helped that I never really fell out of it,” he says, staring at the beach towel so he doesn’t have to look at Harry’s face. “Kept you from noticing any changes, that sort of thing.”

Harry is quiet for a while, apparently mulling this over. “So I’m not in this alone?” he asks eventually. “You weren’t just humouring me?”

“Never,” Nick says. 

Harry’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions. He’s so awful at hiding his emotions, Nick thinks fondly, as Harry eventually settles on a smile so huge it threatens to split his face in half. “Brilliant,” Harry says, and he reaches over to rest his hand on Nick’s shoulder, briefly. 

 

When they return to Harry’s, they lie around his lounge watching telly until Harry badgers him into helping out with dinner, saying, “You’ve got to earn your keep, Grimshaw,” before kissing him. 

“I thought I was,” Nick says, groping Harry’s ass shamelessly. 

“Not like _that_ ,” Harry says. “Though I don’t mind.” He sways towards Nick, bracing himself on the sofa arm. “If you’re good, I’ll let you fuck me tonight.”

“ _Let_ me? You’re gagging for it,” Nick says. He pulls Harry toward him until Harry ducks down and kisses him again, sinking down into him easily. Harry is so solid now, and Nick has never been the type to like being pinned down, but there’s something about Harry’s weight on his chest that he loves.

“We really should eat,” Harry says between kisses. He nuzzles along Nick’s jaw, bites the underside, and then squeezes Nick’s cock hard. “We need energy.”

“You’re a monster,” Nick says, sliding his hand up the back of Harry’s shirt. “Do you know that?”

“Your monster,” Harry says. His skin is so smooth, soft beneath Nick’s hand. “I’m serious, though, we really need to eat.” He shifts back so he’s sitting on Nick’s thighs, beaming down at him. “And not just me.”

“Very good, you should do a stand-up show,” Nick says. He pushes himself upright. “All right, fine. Although I do prefer to eat dessert first.”

“Saucy,” Harry says, leaning in to flick Nick’s nose. 

Harry sets Nick to chopping mushrooms while he makes quinoa, apparently, his hair pulled up again. Nick keeps getting distracted by the curve of Harry’s neck, the soft wisps of hair coming loose from the base of his bun. It’s strange to look at Harry and think, quite clearly, _I could spend the rest of my life doing this_ , and mean it completely. Nick hates thinking that far in the future, but he can picture it, down the line when Harry’s doing whatever he’s planning on doing after the band, maybe a solo career or maybe taking strange, artsy black and white photos that are displayed in the Tate. Harry in Nick’s flat, barefoot, slightly older, shirt hanging open to his navel as he looks back, smiles at Nick in that same, all-encompassing way. It’s a nice picture. 

“Nick, babe,” Harry says, reaching over to take the knife from his hands. “I think you’ve chopped those mushrooms small enough.”

Nick looks down at the cutting board to see that he’s mangled the last mushroom into microscopic bits. “It’s how Nigella does it,” he lies. 

Harry shakes his head and lifts the board to toss the mushrooms into the quinoa. “Pick us out a bottle of wine, will you? Something red, but not too heavy, I think.”

“Look at you, all sophisticated now,” Nick says, going to look through Harry’s wine cabinet. “When we first met, you would have happily drunk wine from a box.”

“I’ll still drink wine from a box,” Harry says. “I’m not totally posh yet.” 

Nick picks a likely looking Granache from Chile and presents it to Harry for his inspection. Harry waves his hand toward the wine glasses in answer, and Nick takes two down for them. He pours them each a healthy measure and leans back against the counter to watch Harry finish up their meal. “Do you remember when we first met?” he asks Harry suddenly. 

“What, at the GQ Awards?” Harry asks, turning to glance at him. “I forced my number on you, don’t you remember? I rather fancied you.”

“What? No, you didn’t,” Nick says. “And no, that’s not what I mean—I mean when we met at Xtra Factor. Do you remember that?”

It had been quick, just an introduction from Caroline, who hadn’t told Nick that this was the one she was bloody _shagging_ , and a flash of Harry’s devastating smile. He’d seen Harry on the show by that point, and he remembers being charmed by his accent and mop of curly hair, by how he said he was going to be a lawyer, of all things, but there was nothing like meeting him in person. He’s a force of nature, Harry Styles is. 

“Oh—yes,” Harry says, brows furrowing. “But that was awfully quick, wasn’t it? I was gutted I had to dash, I used to watch you on telly.”

“Yes,” Nick says. “But you made an impression.”

Harry tilts his head. He has his thoughtful face on, the one he always gets right before he comes out with something startlingly insightful and brilliant. Nick loves it; he considers it one of Harry’s party tricks. Everyone assumes that because he’s beautiful and a pop star and dresses like a maniac, he’s a bit dim, but Harry’s one of the smartest, most thoughtful people Nick knows. Of course, when he turns that power on Nick, it’s a little more disconcerting. 

“Is that how long it’s been?” he asks, blunt, and Nick wants to say, _No_ , or _Since what?_ But instead he nods.

“I suppose,” he says. “Obviously I didn’t, you know, fall in love at first sight or anything, but I fancied you. And felt bloody awful about it, I should say. When we actually became mates, you stopped being this—this abstract concept. Then it was impossible not to love you.”

“That’s awfully romantic, Nicholas,” Harry says, mouth turning up. “Normally getting you to talk about something like this is like pulling teeth.”

“It’s a thing,” Nick says. “My New Year’s resolution. Trying to be happy with what I have, which involves being honest with myself, I suppose. And you?” He tips his glass against Harry’s lightly. “What about you?”

“I told you,” Harry says. “I realized that when I come home, what I most want to see is you.” He turns off the stove and says, “Grab some plates, will you?”

They eat outside in the growing dusk, pressed together from thigh to ankle. It’s delicious, of course; Harry’s really figured out how to cook these days. After his second glass of wine, Nick’s tongue has loosened enough to ask, “So when did you decide that, then?”

“Decide what?” Harry asks.

“About me.”

Harry sets his glass down and smiles wryly. “The last time you came out to visit me here.”

“That was a full year ago,” Nick says, startled. 

“I had to think about it,” Harry says. “There are a lot of things to consider, you know. But when you were here, it just felt better. Not that I don’t love it here, and I have friends in LA, but it gets a bit echoey.” He gestures as if to encompass the entire state of California. “And you make me laugh.”

“That’s how you decided?” Nick asks. 

“I decided for sure when I came to see you at Christmas,” Harry says. “That was the best Christmas I’ve had in ages.”

“You’re a multi-millionaire popstar,” Nick feels compelled to point out. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. He takes Nick’s hand and looks at him with an earnest, pleading expression. “It’s all right, isn’t it?” he asks. “All of this? Us being together?”

“I suppose,” Nick says, and he draws Harry in towards him.

They fuck in the living room after Harry scampers to the guest bathroom to retrieve lube and condoms—“I have it everywhere!” he says chirpily when Nick raises his eyebrows—Harry bent over the back of his ludicrous couch and arching his delicious back. Nick can see their shadowy reflection in the television screen, the way Harry’s eyes are closed in bliss. The room echoes with the sounds of their quiet, choked off moans, and Nick feels briefly like maybe they should have been more romantic about it, maybe lit one of Harry’s a hundred candles. And then Harry turns his head, twisting back toward him, and Nick stops thinking about it. 

Harry drags him into the pool after they’ve wiped off, and they paddle around naked until Harry pounces on him again. Nick hasn’t done this—snogged while skinny-dipping—since he was around Harry’s age, probably. It feels like an impossible dream; but Nick can’t say he minds. 

In the dark, it’s hard to make out Harry’s features, so Nick makes do with his fingers, tracing the familiar lines of Harry’s brow, his nose, his lips. He knows them by heart now, knows that even if he never saw Harry again he would know him by the line of his jaw. 

“Hey Grimmy,” Harry says softly, in the voice he uses when he’s abound to wind someone up. “You think you’re still too old to get it up twice in one night?” 

Nick is pretty sure he is. “You’re welcome to give a try, love,” he says. He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair before pulling him in for a kiss. “But maybe not tonight. Let’s try when we aren’t likely to drown.”

“You’re no fun,” Harry says breathlessly, pushing one bare leg between Nick’s. 

Instead, Nick eats Harry out on one of his pool chairs, which squeaks and shakes ominously every time Harry tries to push back into him. They’re both giddy and giggly, even as Nick works his thumb in alongside his tongue, making Harry yelp hoarsely. Nick can’t get enough of him. He’s already planning everything he wants from Harry while he’s here, and that’s—Nick is surprised at himself. He knows, in his heart, that it can’t last. Harry is Harry Styles of One Direction, and Harry Styles of Holmes Chapel besides, both the image-conscious popstar and the boy who can’t stay in one place. Taylor Swift even wrote a bloody song about that, didn’t she. 

Nick rinses his mouth out with mouthwash after, climbing into bed next to Harry, who had to be half-carried up to his room. Harry’s nearly already asleep, mouth slack and his arms akimbo, but when Nick settles against him, he tugs Nick against him before turning on his side so Nick is pressed along his back. 

“Love you,” Harry mumbles. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” Nick says automatically. 

And there’s that, he thinks. Harry loves him. He has to stop overthinking it, at least while he’s here; he needs to take it for what it is. Isn’t that what he said his New Year’s resolution was? To be satisfied with what life gave him? If this is what he’s being offered, he’ll take it. God, will he take it. 

 

It’s one of the best holidays Nick’s had in years. Perhaps it’s the lack of anything to do. Perhaps it’s the sex. More likely, it’s Harry, who has a never-ending list of things he wants to show Nick from his favourite donut shop to a small, shady-looking taco stand on Sunset Boulevard that he swears has the best tacos he’s ever had. It’s funny how, as famous as Harry is, he can sometimes still get away with stuff like this in a place like LA, where there are always bigger fish to fry and so many people that he isn’t always instantly recognizable.

They do get papped a couple of times, but Nick is pretty sure nothing comes of it, because he doesn’t get any texts or emails from Aimee demanding what’s going on. It probably helps that no one in LA knows who Nick is. Harry takes it in stride, waving to them, and offers one of them the rest of his smoothie from Jamba Juice. 

“I’m full,” he explains, smiling. “Do you like mango?”

On Saturday, Harry wakes up early and drags Nick around the house with him getting the place ready for visitors, as he puts it. They take down Harry’s patio furniture and wipe it down, run to the store to buy charcoal for the barbecue, have an argument in the shop about what kind of charcoal to buy, and snog in the car for a good fifteen minutes when they get back to Harry’s. 

“Maybe we should argue more,” Nick suggests when Harry pulls back. Harry pinches his arm and pouts. “Not _real_ arguments,” Nick adds hastily. 

“Hmph,” Harry says, climbing out of the car. “Just for that, you’re making the coleslaw because I don’t know how.”

Despite Harry’s mania, everything is ready to go when Liam arrives, first as always, with a six pack of beer in one hand and a watermelon under his other arm. Harry takes the watermelon from him immediately, muttering delightedly under his breath, and Nick watches him warily, half-convinced he’ll drop it. 

“Hey, Grimmy,” Liam says, twinkling at him. Nick can’t think of a better way to describe the way Liam’s face scrunches up and his eyes shine all bright like he’s a bloody cartoon. “Good to see you, mate!” He holds out his arms for a hug. 

Nick gingerly embraces him, trying for a laddy back slap. “Good to see you, Liam Payne. Have you changed your hair again?”

“Just a bit,” Liam says cheerfully. “Cut a bit off the top. Where should I put these beers?”

“No idea, just leave them wherever, I guess,” Nick says. “I’m sure they won’t have enough time to get cold.”

Liam laughs. “You’re probably right at that.” He goes into the lounge and drops the pack on the coffee table. Nick follows him, figuring he should be a good host and keep him company. 

“Need anything?” Nick asks. “Water or sommat?”

“Nah, I’m good with this. Thanks for having us over,” Liam says, cracking open one of the beers and sitting on the sofa. He looks well-rested and fit, almost ridiculously so. “I feel like I haven’t seen Harry in ages, but it hasn’t really been that long, I suppose.”

“He can be a hard one to get a hold of,” Nick says. “How have you been, then? Enjoying your time off?”

“It’s been wicked,” Liam says enthusiastically. “I’ve been learning some producing tricks from Julian and Jamie, actually, and I’m learning to DJ a bit—actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, do you mind?”

“Of course not, I love bestowing my wisdom upon the callow youth,” Nick says. Liam wrinkles his nose and laughs. “Come on, what d’you want to know?”

Liam has loads of questions, from how Nick first got into DJ-ing to how he finds new artists to how he reads a crowd. He’s an eager learner and seems to take Nick’s advice to heart, whether he should or not. Nick hasn’t spent a whole lot of time with Liam, though he finds him perhaps the easiest of Harry’s bandmates to get along with—probably because Liam is so friendly and unguarded, even compared to Niall—and he’s surprised by how natural it feels to compare notes on gigs and favourite records. He doesn’t even realize how long they’ve been talking until Harry calls his name from the kitchen, saying, “I need your help carrying things.”

“One moment, love!” Nick calls back. He turns to Liam says, “Do you have my personal number? You’re welcome to text any time if you like.”

“I don’t, but I can get it off Haz,” Liam says. “I think it’s great, by the way. The two of you are really good together, and you make him really happy.”

Nick pauses as he’s standing up, thrown by the unexpected segue. “Thanks,” he says after a moment. “I’m glad.”

He escapes to the kitchen before he can say anything more inane, like, _That means a lot_. Harry is trying to carry three plates of meat out to the grill, which is bound to end in disaster. Nick quickly takes two of them and follows him out to the patio. They’ve already brought out the rest of the food, and a couple of bottles of wine, and Nick decides it’s past time he has a glass. 

“Did you tell your bandmates that we’re dating?” Nick asks quietly under the guise of reaching past Harry for the corkscrew. “Because Liam just congratulated me and said I make you happy.”

“You do make me happy,” Harry says. “And yes, I did. I wasn’t going to do anything without running by them first.”

“God, so you’re really serious about this, aren’t you,” Nick says. “You’re proper planning for it.” 

“Nick,” Harry says, starting to get that pinched expression again. “Can we talk about this later? Once they’ve left? I really don’t feel like rowing right now.”

“I’m not trying to row, I’m just surprised, is all,” Nick says quickly. “I didn’t realize it was that far along with you.”

Harry tilts his head slightly, looking at Nick with a curiously blank expression. “Still. We should talk about this after they leave.”

“I love you,” Nick says, because he wants to be sure Harry knows that just now. Harry breaks out in a smile, finally, and Nick breathes out a sigh of relief before leaning in to peck his mouth. Harry wraps his hand around Nick’s waist, squeezes his hip, and then shoves him away, saying, “I’ve got to barbecue, all proper manly and that.”

“Very manly,” Nick agrees. “I feel myself going faint just at the sight.”

Harry grins at him, the last of the tension between them seeming to melt away as he turns to the grill. From inside, Nick hears the doorbell ring. A moment later, Liam’s voice yells, “Niall!” and Nick smiles fondly. Harry doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, too busy poking at the ribs, but when Niall and Liam join them, he sets down the tongs and turns to embrace both of them in turn. Niall’s bleach job is growing out, but he mostly looks the same, smiling and cheerful as he gives Nick a hug hello as well. 

“Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” Niall says. “Enjoying California?”

“It has its perks,” Nick says. 

“I bet!” Niall says, elbowing Nick in the ribs and waggling his eyebrows. “I bet Harry’s awfully _perky_.” He swipes Liam’s beer and drains the rest of it. Liam looks mildly disapproving, but only goes back inside to retrieve the rest. “Anyway, good to see you, mate. I think Haz was getting lonely out here.”

“Was not,” Harry says. “Besides, Louis’s here.”

“Yeah, with his _baby_ ,” Niall says. He throws himself down into one of the seats and beckons Nick over. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, Grimmy.”

Louis arrives when Harry is almost done barbecuing the chicken, carrying a bottle of wine and a pie from Bree. He drops both on the table, attacks Liam with a hug and nipple tweak, kisses Niall on the cheek, and squeezes Harry until he squawks and says, “I saw you _four days_ ago!”

“Hello, Nicholas,” Louis says when he comes to sit down. “Good to see you.”

“Louis,” Nick says. “What hour do you call this, then?”

“Joanna was fussing,” Louis says. “And you can’t prove otherwise.”

“You aren’t going to argue all night, are you?” Liam asks, leaning on the back of Niall’s chair. “Because that might get kind of tired.”

“Nah,” Louis says. “We’re good, aren’t we, Grimmy? I’m even using his stupid nickname and everything.”

“Louis,” Liam sighs in exasperation, but Nick laughs and offers Louis a glass for his wine. Niall gets up to help Harry with the grill, and Liam takes his seat to talk to Louis about a song he’s been working on. Nick half-listens, watching as Niall drapes himself on Harry’s back and starts trying to cook for him before finally elbowing him out of the way. Harry laughs and comes to sit next to Nick. 

“I’ve been fired,” he says, taking one of the bottles of wine. “Pass me a glass, will you, Leemo?”

When the food is finally finished and on the table, Niall asks Nick to take a picture for Instagram. The four of them squeeze in far closer than they have to, beaming widely, and Nick feels the same brief pang of surprise at Zayn’s absence, all the more surprising because he hadn’t known Zayn all that well. He takes the picture and hands the phone back. 

“Ta,” Niall says, already thumbing through Instagram to post it. “What do you think for caption? Boys are back in town?” 

“We’re not in town, we’re in LA,” Liam says. “London is town.”

“I’m Irish,” Niall says. 

“You’re an Irishman who lives in London half the year,” says Louis. 

“Shut up, I’m posting it,” Niall says. “And pass me some of those ribs, will you?”

Nick checks his phone while they start passing around plates, still bickering amicably. It’s a good picture of the four of them, and Niall had gone with, _LADS in LA!_ _#feelssogood_ , which is bound to get some reaction. He likes it and tucks his phone away, accepting a plate of grilled vegetable skewers. He doesn’t actually remember buying courgettes with Harry, but they must have. 

There’s enough food for a bloody army, but between the five of them they make a sizable dent in it. Nick doesn’t contribute much to the conversation aside from the occasionally sly remark, too busy looking at Harry to speak much. Judging from the glances he gets from Niall and Louis, he isn’t being particularly subtle about it, but he thinks he’s allowed. He keeps thinking that Harry must have sat down with them and said, _I’m in love with Nick_ and _I think I’m going to go for it_. And they must have said yes, because they are a tiny democracy and Harry is careful, despite what the press would have people believe. 

Louis is in the middle of relaying a particularly disgusting story about Joanna and his adventures in burping her when Niall leans over, slightly flushed from the number of beers he’s had—four, last Nick noticed—and says, “I wasn’t kidding about Haz being lonely, but I expect you knew that.”

“He did say he was going mental,” Nick says. “I suppose he talked to you, too?”

“All of us,” Niall says. “It’s all right,” he adds, seeing Nick’s face. “We’re all glad for it. Did you see Rochelle and Marvin’s latest?” 

“No, what have they been up to?” Nick asks, and they gossip about Rochelle and the baby before Niall starts in on a story about his Irish crew in London, telling Nick about nearly drowning in his mate’s swimming pool. It isn’t until later, when Niall and Liam have started taking the plates in for them, that he realizes he’s been given approval from each one of them. It feels significant, and when he catches Harry smiling at him, he knows it is. 

“That was excellent, boys,” Louis says, getting up from the table and stretching. “Any of you fancy a smoke? I’m feeling like it today.”

“Those things will kill you,” Niall says, grinning. “Unless you’re thinking something a bit more cheeky.”

“Nah, these’ll kill you too, but more slowly.” Louis pulls a joint from his pocket and holds it out to Nick, eyebrows raised. It feels like a peace offering of some kind, and Nick does rather fancy it. He takes the joint and the lighter Louis produces, lighting it on his second try. They sit down on the edge of the patio, legs kicked out in front of them. 

“Should you be smoking up with a baby at home?” Nick asks, only a little serious. He takes a drag and passes it to Louis, watching as Louis narrows his eyes. 

“I’ll be sober by the time I get home,” Louis says. “Going to lecture me about responsible behaviour?”

“When have I ever given you the impression of being responsible?” Nick asks, clutching his hand to his chest. “God forbid.”

“I’m not a shitty father,” Louis says sharply, and oh, shit, Louis’s dad, Nick had nearly forgotten about that. “I’m not.” 

Nick’s mouth is going to get him in real trouble one day. “I know, Louis,” he says. “You’re a great dad. I was just making a joke. A bad one.”

Louis finally lifts the joint to his lips. When he exhales, he blows the smoke directly into Nick’s face. Nick takes it as close to forgiveness as he’s likely to get. 

Harry and Liam come to join them, Harry taking the joint from Louis and sitting cross-legged on the grass. Liam perches on the edge of the patio behind Harry, frowning as he laboriously plaits Harry’s long hair. Niall fetches Harry’s guitar from inside and sits back on his chair, picking away aimlessly before singing one of Ed Sheeran’s songs quietly. Liam joins in, singing harmony, and Louis hums along around the joint before passing it to Harry. Nick isn’t a musician, but he’s always loved spending time with them like this, when they’re relaxed and not worried about sounding perfect, just having fun making music. 

Between the five of them, they make short work of the joint. Nick is starting to feel it under his skin, the buzzy, floating feeling, a bit like everything around him is in a film. He lies back on the grass, pillowing his head on Harry’s knee, and smiles when one of Harry’s hands lands on his chest, just below his collarbone. Harry’s hands are so _big_ ; they should really explore that one of these days. 

"Does anyone else ever wake up surprised they aren't in a hotel room?" Niall asks, hands stilling on the strings. "I keep thinking we have to go do press or something, like, I wake up thinking I'm late."

"Sometimes I think, 'If I mess up this outfit, Caroline will kill me,'" Louis says. "And then I remember she won't, because I won't be seeing her."

“I practice interviews,” Harry says. “In the shower.” He grins, smile lit up by the patio lights. “When I realize I’m doing it, I feel like a total mental case.”

“I miss Zayn,” Liam says quietly. 

They all fall silent at that. Harry’s hand is heavy against Nick, and his thigh feels tense. Nick remembers Harry calling him to tell him about Zayn, late one night, wanting an ear for his problems. He hadn’t even sounded sad, is the thing, not that Nick doubted he was. He’d just sounded exhausted and young. Later, Nick knows, Harry had cried, because Lou had texted asking him to send something to cheer him up, but at the time, Nick thinks Harry had understood why it was Zayn wanted to leave. 

“Has anyone spoken to him?” Louis asks after a long stretch of silence. He’s fidgeting, tapping his hand against his thigh, and his tone is forced casual. Niall and Harry both nod. 

“Not much,” Harry says quickly when Louis looks at him. “Just a few texts, checking in. He doesn’t answer many of them. He’s pretty busy, I think.”

“Same here,” Niall says. “He seems happy, though. Better than he was before.” He sounds sad. 

“Yeah,” Liam says. “I’m glad for that at least.”

“Maybe if we had taken the break earlier—” Harry says, but Louis cuts him off with a sharp laugh. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

“Louis,” Liam says quietly, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. “Please.”

They’re all quiet for another minute before Harry speaks up again. “It’s been nice, this break,” Harry says. “Hasn’t it? But I miss it all.” He looks around, and Nick feels very much as though he’s intruding, and he’s wondering if he should get up and give them some privacy, but Harry is holding him in place. “I miss you lads.”

“I’ve been writing a song,” Louis says abruptly. “Well, several, actually. If you want to hear them.” He sounds almost defiant, like he’s afraid they’ll say no, but they all shift at his words, like it’s a call to arms.

Nick puts his hand over Harry’s and says, “I should leave you to it, love. I’ll be upstairs.”

“No, Nick—” Harry says, trying to pull him back as Nick gets to his feet. “I didn’t mean, I want you here.”

“Spend time with your boys,” Nick says. He kisses Harry, more deeply than he probably should among company, and squeezes his hand. “You’ve missed them. Write a song for me, will you?”

“Already have,” Harry says, and something about the way he says it makes Nick’s stomach jump. “All right, then. I’ll see you.”

“Disgusting,” Louis says fondly when they kiss again. “Get out of here, Grimmy, we’ve got important music things to do.”

Liam and Niall both smile as Nick collects the remaining dishes and takes them inside with him, and as the door shuts behind him, he hears Niall says, “So let’s have it, then,” and the quiet hum of voices. 

Nick rinses off the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher—so posh, he thinks idly—and pours himself another glass of wine before heading upstairs. Before this week, he would have been delighted that they were making music again, and he is, but there’s the small, selfish part of him that thinks, _This means Harry will be on tour again_. It was fine when Harry was just the mate he fancied, but now that there’s this potential for more—so much more that Harry’s talked to his _band_ about it—he wants to keep Harry for himself. Which is stupid, because Harry doesn’t belong to him. 

Despite his best intentions, Nick falls asleep on Harry’s stupidly comfortable bed, only waking up when Harry shakes him awake and says, “The lads are heading out now, if you’d like to say goodbye.” It’s past midnight, according to the clock, and Harry looks tired but amazingly happy. 

“You have a good time?” Nick asks, sitting up and trying to rearrange himself into something vaguely presentable. “Write some number one hits?”

“I think so,” Harry says. “It’s a bit different. But good different, I think.” He wraps his arms around Nick and hugs him tight. “I’ve really missed them.”

“I know, love,” Nick says, stroking his hand over Harry’s hair, which has fallen out of Liam’s plait. “Let’s go see them off, shall we?”

It’s a flurry of goodbyes at the door and promises to call and visit. Liam tells Nick to look him up when they’re both back in London, and Nick is surprised to realize he means it when he agrees. Niall hugs both of them enthusiastically, and Louis even deigns to shake Nick’s hand, though he’s smiling and acting as though it’s only for appearance’s sake. Nick is beginning to think he can read him, finally. 

When they’ve gone, Harry kisses Nick long and slow and filthy and says, “We do have to talk. But I think for now I’d just like to sleep with you, if that’s all right.”

“I suppose I can allow that,” Nick says, and he takes Harry back upstairs. Harry’s always a tactile person, but he’s even more just now, helping Nick take his clothes off before plastering himself along his back and mouthing along his neck. Nick runs his hands over Harry’s arms, still a little in awe of how strong he’s become. Harry could do just about anything to Nick; and that’s not something Nick thought he wanted before, but he likes the idea now. 

“What are you thinking?” Harry asks, breath tickling Nick’s ear. He slides his hand down to Nick’s trousers, working the button open. “Because I’m thinking I’d like to get us both off right now.”

“Not going to argue,” Nick says as Harry starts grinding against him. There’s something about how desperate it feels to have Harry rubbing off against him, clothes still on, the lights off. It reminds Nick of getting off in clubs and how that could be such a thrill even when he felt like a slag. Like they were both so hungry for it they couldn’t wait to get to a proper bed or even the bathroom. 

And Harry’s mad for it, Nick can tell from the soft noises he’s making against Nick’s neck and the rough, off-tempo strokes of his hand. Nick reaches back to pull him in close, closing his eyes even though he can hardly see anything in the dark anyway. He can feel it when Harry comes in his trousers, his hips jerking unsteadily, his hand squeezing too tight on Nick’s cock. Nick whines, and Harry murmurs an apology before going back to pulling him off, probably leaving a mark on his neck from where his teeth are digging in. 

“Love you,” Harry whispers against the back of his neck, and Nick echoes him, grateful now for the dark. God, this is happening so quickly. Nick’s only got another week with Harry, and then he’s going back to the UK and Harry is staying here. Nick puts his hand over Harry’s and wishes he knew a way to say no, to keep himself from getting hurt as he’s bound to. Love doesn’t come easily to him, and though it had been hard to love Harry, in some ways it simplified things that Harry was gone and didn’t love him back. Then Nick wasn’t missing something as concrete as this; he didn’t know what it was he didn’t have. 

This is such a mess, Nick thinks, even as he turns to kiss Harry and draw him into bed. He hasn’t forgotten Harry’s insistence that they talk, but he thinks it’s going to wait, judging from how slowly Harry is moving. Nick wishes they could get it done with now. He feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, still. 

Then Harry snuffles and presses his face against Nick’s collar, and Nick thinks, right. Be satisfied. Accept what you have. He strokes Harry’s back and closes his eyes. He can do that. 

 

Harry is still asleep when Nick gets up, and is still asleep when Nick pads out of the bathroom having showered. Nick eats a piece of pie for breakfast and makes himself a cup of terrible instant coffee, sitting at Harry’s kitchen island as he flicks through his phone. He’s got a bunch of notifications on Twitter—there are a couple pap photos of him and Harry floating around, he sees—and a few texts from Daisy and Collette asking after Harry. He replies to the texts, clicks around the article links despite himself, and is surprised to find that they’re fairly tame. _NICK GRIMSHAW KEEPS BEST MATE HARRY ENTERTAINED DURING ONE DIRECTION HIATUS_ says one. Niall’s photo had helped change the news cycle a bit, since most of the article goes off into speculation about whether the boys are working on anything new. 

Harry’s posted something, too, he sees, and when he opens it up, it’s a black and white photo of Nick’s hand, caught in motion as he gestures. Probably most people wouldn’t be able to recognize it, but Nick knows the shape of his fingers and wrist. He hadn’t even noticed Harry taking his phone out last night. There’s no caption. 

“Harry, you’re a bloody weirdo,” he mutters to himself, closing out of the app. It would be stupid to be charmed by it. 

Nick is on his second cup of coffee when Harry comes downstairs, wet hair dripping down his bare back, his feet leaving damp prints behind him on the wood floor. Harry snags the cup, takes a sip, makes a face, and moves off to the kettle. Nick watches him unashamedly, the way his muscles shift, the curve of his arse. He grew up good, that Harry Styles did. 

“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” Nick says. “You seemed to be having a good time.”

“It was nice,” Harry says, fiddling with the stove. “Before, on the tour, we were starting to argue a lot. It was scary. I’m glad we could just _be_.”

“You’ve missed them,” Nick says.

Harry shrugs, not looking back. “We’ve lived in each other’s pockets since I was sixteen. They’re more than mates, you know?” His voice wavers a little, and Nick is up before he has a chance to think about it, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and kissing his bare shoulder. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Nick says. “I’m a right mess when I don’t see Aimee for more than a couple weeks. I get it. They’re your family.”

Harry nods and slowly turns in Nick’s arms. He rests his hands against Nick, rubbing some of Nick’s chest hair between his fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’d told them about us. They’re like my brothers, is all, and they need to know if I’m planning on it. Because I don’t want you to be my secret. That’s not fair to you.”

And god, that hits Nick in the stomach like a kick from a horse. “Harry,” he says quietly. “This is a huge decision, you know that? We’ve only been doing _this_ for a week.”

“Have we?” Harry asks. “It feels like a lot longer.” 

He isn’t wrong about that. While in some ways it feels like it’s all happening very fast, when Nick looks back, he can see how it’s been coming to this for a while. Harry, at Christmas. Harry, curled up into his shoulder at his flat, seeking him out for comfort. 

“I don’t want you to regret it,” Nick says. “I’m okay with it being a secret, Harry, at least until we find our footing. It’s early days yet.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Harry says. “You’re the one who gets shit for being mates with me. From the press, from my fans, from everyone. So it’s up to you, really. I don’t care. They can all know. Even Lou is okay with it, he said so.”

Shit. “I don’t really do this kind of thing,” Nick says, drawing in a shaky breath. “You know I’m rubbish at relationships.”

“So am I,” Harry says. “Doesn’t mean we can’t give it a go.” He’s being so _reasonable_ that it’s hard to do the sensible thing and tell him no. “Besides, I thought that you’d never been offered.” 

“I’ve never been offered because I’ve never taken up with anyone who _would_ offer that,” Nick says. “I date models and people loads younger than me who are just looking for a night or two, and it’s _easier_ that way.”

“Of course it is,” Harry says. “But I’m still here. Offering.”

“Why are you doing this?” Nick asks quietly. “What if it changes everything?”

“It will,” Harry says. “But is that so bad?” 

Nick laughs and covers his face with his hands. “God, Harry. How do you do this to me all the time?” 

“Because you love me,” Harry says, and he sounds fond. “And because I love you. I’ve known for a while, you know. This isn’t new. I just needed some time to decide what I wanted to do about it.”

“You live _here_ ,” Nick says. “And you’re a bloody popstar and you’re too good for me.” 

“I don’t have to live here, and I don’t see what my job has anything to do with it, and I am definitely not too good for you.” Harry taps Nick’s chin, almost like he’s the older one. “I’m selfish and I avoid conflict and I’m going to flirt with other people because that’s what I do, but I love you. God, Nick, I love you so much. It’s a bit like having a splinter you can’t get out, just in my heart instead of my finger.” 

“I see why Louis and Liam write most of the songs,” Nick quips, trying to disguise the shaking his voice with false levity. “Though that’d be a wicked band name. Splinter of the Heart.”

“Nick, please,” Harry says, taking on a note of pleading. “I’ve been driving myself mental about this for months. I want to be with you, and I know it’s going to be hard, but it’s worth it to me. You make me so happy.”

“You’re so bloody sincere,” Nick says. Harry’s looking up at him, those gorgeous eyes glassy, brow furrowed. “Jesus. What did I do to convince you I’m worth this?”

“Nick, yes or no,” Harry says. “Please.”

“Yes,” Nick says before he can properly think about it. “Yes. Shit. Fuck, what are we doing, Harry?”

“I think we’re dating, babe,” Harry says, and he’s smiling so brightly Nick can’t help but smile back, his heart racing at a thousand miles an hour. 

They spend the day in, swimming in Harry’s pool and eating leftovers from the barbecue. Nick blows Harry out on one of the pool chairs, kneeling between his damp thighs and licking the taste of chlorine from his skin. Harry returns the favour after dinner while they’re watching telly, and Nick can’t help laughing at the teenaged-ness of it, waving his hand when Harry lifts off his cock to pout at him. 

“Nothing to do with you, love,” he assures him. “Your mouth is glorious.”

Harry looks appeased by this and ducks back down to finish him off. 

Be satisfied, Nick had told himself at the beginning of the year. He had, at the time, meant that he should accept the things he couldn’t change, like being in love with Harry and the listening numbers for the show and the fact that Aimee is off being married these days. He’s thirty-one, has never been in a serious long-term relationship, and he’s so busy that he hardly has time to walk his dog, let alone date. But Harry knows all these things, and he’s here anyway. 

They shower together, giggling and shoving each other under the spray before tumbling out towards the bed. Harry tosses his wet hair into Nick’s face to annoy him and then wriggles down beneath the duvet, looking very smug with himself. 

“Niall invited us out golfing tomorrow,” he says. “I know it’s not really your thing, so if not I’m sure he’d love to do something else.”

“I’m rubbish at golf,” Nick says. “But maybe it’ll be a laugh. You’ll have to give me a good handicap. That’s a golf thing, innit?”

“I’d need the handicap, not you,” Harry says. “Really, though? You don’t have to.”

“You want to,” says Nick. “And Niall’s a laugh, so sure. What does one wear to golf? Do I need a pair of those silly trousers?”

“You already own plenty of silly trousers,” Harry says, and then, “Ow!” when Nick digs his fingers into his ribs. 

“Half of your trousers used to be mine, you traitor,” Nick says. 

“I stole them for the greater good,” Harry says, smile visible even in the dim light. God, Nick loves it when he smiles like that, that unfettered grin that could power a bloody city. “No one needs to see your knees.”

“I have sexy knees,” Nick says. “Don’t lie. You go all faint like a Victorian gentleman when you see my knees.”

“I go all faint over your elbows too,” Harry says. “And your neck, and your chest, and your cock. Especially that.”

“Bit dirty for a Victorian,” Nick says, pulling Harry against him. “Very well. Golf tomorrow. I’ll wear proper clothes and everything.”

Harry makes a happy noise and settles in against him. His hair smells like chlorine, and Nick’s got strands of it in his mouth, but it’s all right, really. It’s nice. 

 

It’s stupidly bright and sunny in the morning, a proper California day of clear skies and just a bit of sea breeze. Nick wears one of Harry’s polos and a pair of jeans, feeling stupid, and from the way Harry looks like he’s trying not to laugh, he must look a sight. Harry looks like a wanker, though, in khaki shorts and a salmon pink polo, so he’s got no leg to stand on in Nick’s opinion.

Niall laughs in their faces when he picks them up. He looks disgustingly normal in black jeans and a t-shirt, a white visor his only concession to the occasion. “Where do you think we’re going, lads, St. Andrews?”

“I think I look rather dashing,” Harry says, swatting at Niall. “Get in the car, let’s go.”

Niall is a much better driver than Harry, not that it’s a particularly high bar to clear. He talks the whole way, telling Harry about the plane over and how Liam is spoiling Joanna to no end, “probably because he’s sad he’s not godfather, even though we’re all uncles anyway,” and how Louis was so baby-tired when they first arrived that he walked straight into a doorframe. 

“The first month was a nightmare,” Harry says. “Anytime anything went remotely wrong he called me and his mum and their paediatrician.” He glances back at Nick, who’s claimed the entire backseat for himself. “Don’t tell him I said any of this.”

“’Course not,” Nick says. “Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Don’t do that, Harry’ll be sad,” Niall says, and then he laughs uproariously as Harry squawks indignantly and tries to hit him without distracting him from driving. 

Nick’s been golfing before, but he’s absolutely terrible at it. Fortunately, he doesn’t much care, too busy laughing at Niall and Harry’s very earnest competition. He snapchats them for his friends when Niall is trying to knock away Harry’s ball—“This isn’t croquet, Neil!”—and then goes after his own ball, which has gone rogue into the sand trap. 

They only finish nine holes before Niall declares that he’s starving and insists they drive back to the clubhouse for lunch. There are a few photographers, Nick sees, lord even knows how they got on the property, and he ducks his head on instinct. Harry catches him at it and frowns before glancing over and seeing them too. 

“Ah,” he says. He reaches out and snags Nick’s hand. “Ignore them. We’re here for a good day, yeah? Don’t let them spoil it.”

“They’ve missed our beautiful faces,” Niall says, though he looks annoyed too. “I need a fucking drink.”

Nick tries to tug his hand away from Harry. “Love, they’re going to see,” he says. “I don’t mind, but you should talk to someone first.”

Harry shrugs and stubbornly refuses to untangle their hands. “Let them,” he says. “I told you, I don’t care.” 

“There’ll be talk,” Nick points out. 

“There’s always talk,” Harry says. “I meant it, babe. I’m not keeping you a secret. I told our PR that and everything. Talk about it if you want, don’t talk about it, but I’m not going to let them keep me from holding hands with my boyfriend.”

Nick swallows hard at that, the word echoing in his chest. _Boyfriend_. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling. 

“Oi, you coming or what?” Niall asks, poking his head out. “Stop being soppy and get your arses in here.”

Lunch is kind of wonderful, if only because Niall is loud and irrepressibly bright, and Harry eggs him on quietly the entire time, with sly grins and little elbows to the side. They’re being extremely gauche, probably, obviously _nouveau riche_ to anyone else in the dining room, but fuck it. Nick’s used to being the loud, annoying youth in the room.

Harry doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“You know what?" Niall says suddenly when their plates have been cleared and they’re just working on their third round of drinks. "I'm really fucking proud of you. Both of you. I think what we learned last year that we have to ask for what we want sometimes, and you're fucking doing it."

"Nialler," Harry says, voice soft. 

"No, listen to me," Niall says. "We've none of us had a moment to breathe for five years. I'm starting to figure out what I want with my life finally, and it's brilliant to see you doing the same, Haz. We're only young. We needed this."

"You're getting deep on me," Harry says. "That's my thing."

"'Fame is a thing that happens to you,'" Niall says with a laugh. "We’ll pretend it's the beer. But I wanted you to know I'm in your corner, no matter what. Both of you."

It takes Nick a moment to make his voice work, overwhelmed as he sometimes is by how much Harry's boys really love him. "Thank you, Niall," he says. "I really appreciate that."

"If anyone gives you shit, I'll sic Bressie on them," he says cheerfully. “And I bet if I get my photo taken with Perrie or Jade or someone all the papers will want to write about how we’re definitely dating and what a scandal it is.” 

“You hate that, though,” Harry says. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Nah, but I want to.” Niall lifts his beer in salute to them. “Cheers, lads. My best to you and all that.”

Nick and Harry lift their glasses and share a smile. Harry’s hand is still warm in his, his thumb tracing the veins of Nick’s wrist. They’re back on the same team now, the pair of them, like it was when they first met. They were obsessed with each other back then, spending all their time together, and Nick remembers being utterly intoxicated by just Harry’s presence, his smile, his bad jokes. He doesn’t know if it had been the same for Harry, if he had felt that same rush of _I want to spend all my time with this person_ , not even romantically, necessarily, just feeling drawn together. 

They haven’t been like that in a while, more due to circumstance than any real change of feeling on Nick’s part, but he’s feeling it again, that desire to be with Harry as much as possible. The two of them, not friends who are catching up like they’ve been for the last year or two, but a team. Fuck, Nick has missed that. 

Niall belches loudly, grins, and says, “All right, lads, ready for me to beat you at the last nine holes?”

“Pretty sure you’ve already got me beat,” Nick says. “But Harry might have something to say about that.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Harry agrees. He waves down the waiter so they can pay. “Loser buys dinner?” 

“For Liam too, I said we’d get something,” Niall says. He and Harry shake on it. Nick puts his free hand over his eyes and just _knows_ this is going to be a complete disaster. 

Niall and Harry get into a full-fledged wrestling match at hole twelve, with Nick theoretically playing referee, though actually he’s just filming them for snapchat. Harry, who has the height and weight advantage, wins and leaps up like he’s won bloody Wimbledon. Nick takes the opportunity to knock both of their balls away from the hole so he stands a fighting chance. 

Niall wins the game by five strokes and taunts Harry all the way back to the parking lot. Harry pouts until Nick puts his arm around his shoulders and pulls him in against his chest. 

“Be nice to my boyfriend,” Nick tells Niall, who hoots with laughter and blows them both kisses. Harry twists under Nick’s arm and kisses his cheek. 

They meet Liam for dinner at some posh wine bar in downtown LA after going back to Harry’s to change clothes. Niall orders one of everything on the menu when Harry explains that it’s like tapas, insisting they have to try everything. Liam is a little sunburned across his nose but still cheerful and lively. They get to talking about James Corden, and how Liam and Niall are having dinner with him later this week, and it’s just nice, gossiping about mutual acquaintances and sharing stories of their breaks. It reminds Nick of going out with his mates in London, only a little nicer because Harry’s mates are nice, earnest people and Nick’s are sarcastic dry fucks, like him. 

“Tommo and I were thinking,” Liam says over dessert, “that we should record a demo of that song we’re working on. Just to have it, yeah? Something to look forward to.”

“It’s nice to have something to be excited about,” Harry says, glancing at Niall. “You up for it, Nialler?”

“’Course,” says Niall. “We can have Grimmy play the maracas in the background or something.”

“One Direction, featuring Nick Grimshaw,” Nick quips. “Sure-fire number one, that is.”

“I’d like you to listen to it anyway,” Harry says, turning to put his hand on Nick’s. “You’re good at that. Even if you can’t always tell if it’s me or Liam.”

“I’m much better at that game now,” Nick protests. Under the table, his knee knocks against Harry’s. “Of course I’ll listen. If it’s anything like the last album, it’s bound to be wicked.”

“I knew you liked it, you tosser,” Harry says, pinching his wrist and grinning. “You told me it was ‘alright but no _White Album_.’” 

“To be fair, love, it _isn’t_ _The White Album_ ,” Nick starts, but then Harry’s going for the ticklish spot just under his arm, and Nick folds, yelping and trying to squirm away. He nearly falls off his chair, laughing breathlessly, and when he straightens up, Niall and Liam are watching them with soppy expressions. Nick catches Harry’s hands and holds him at arm’s length. “You’re a menace,” he tells him.

Harry grins, stupidly handsome and wonderful. “Tell me we’re the greatest pop group you’ve ever heard and I’ll stop.”

“You’re the greatest pop group in the world ever,” Nick says dutifully. He kisses Harry’s knuckles before he can stop himself, and Harry’s smile somehow grows even brighter. 

“Ugh,” Niall says, “you two are worse than Liam and Sophia.”

“Hey!” Liam says indignantly. 

They go back to Louis’s after that, crowding around Joanna’s crib to take turns cooing at her. After Bree shoos them out, they adjourn to the living room where Louis takes out a guitar for Niall and sits at his piano, carefully playing a few chords, soft so as not to disturb the baby or Bree. Nick sits back and listens to them, to the hesitant harmonies over the chorus and the soft rasp of Louis’s voice over the bridge. _And I still think about you and the way you used to smile_. It’s a different song for them, a little melancholy and nostalgic, not a hopeful love song, and it’s good. It’s really good. 

“I like it,” Nick says when they finish and look at him, like they’re on bloody X Factor again. “But hang on a tick, try the chorus again? Only this time—” And he hums a little, and Liam seems to get it right away, joining in with the words, and it’s starting to sound like them. With a bit of electric guitar, it could be a proper rock song. 

They mess around a bit more, Harry singing some of a song he’s been working on, not looking at Nick at all but his hand squeezing the life out of Nick’s ankle. It’s rough, still missing most of the words, but the chorus has got this bit that goes, _I’ve got this love for you, I hope you feel it too_ , _even if you leave forever I will stay in love with you_ and Harry’s _voice_ —well, Nick’s always been a sucker for his voice. 

Niall drives Harry and Nick home, drops them off with a cheeky, “Use protection!” and speeds off while Harry flips him off. Nick draws Harry upstairs, kisses him until he goes pliant, and then says, “We don’t _have_ to use protection, you know,” and Harry full-body shudders, eyes widening. 

“That’s true,” he says. “Can I go first?” 

It’s Nick’s turn to shiver at that. He likes sex best when it’s a bit dirty and he feels a bit like a slag. Harry knows this, of course, because Gillian and Pixie and—well, most of Nick’s friends—know this and they used to love telling Harry about Nick’s early days in London. Harry drank them in wide-eyed and amused, and would tease Nick, always with that sly smile and slightly lowered eyelashes. The idea of Harry fucking him bare—Nick’s lucky it’s dark, really, or else Harry would probably make fun of him for the way his cock jerks. 

Harry takes his sweet time opening Nick up, mouthing at the top of his thigh and pressing his fingers in slow, so slow. Nick groans into the pillows and clenches his fists in the sheets. Harry’s got such _nice_ hands, nice long fingers and not too thick. Nick grinds his hips into the mattress slowly, needing some friction against his cock to counter the tenseness, the sheer overwhelming feeling of Harry being inside him. 

“Hurry up,” Nick gasps when Harry slides in a third finger. “Haven’t got all night, love.”

“Don’t we?” Harry asks, voice slightly muffled by Nick’s leg. “What if I just kept at it like this? Kept bringing you close to the edge and then letting you just hang there?”

“Like you’ve got the patience for that,” Nick says, but _fuck_ , that’s an idea. 

“Not tonight,” Harry agrees. “Some other time.” He eases his fingers out, and Nick shivers, thighs tensing at the loss. 

There’s the sound of the lube bottle opening again, the slick sound of lube on skin, and then Harry’s cock is pressing at his arse, hot and hard and _big_. Shit. Nick pushes himself up onto his hands, dimly wishing he had taken Fifi up on her offer to do press-ups in the studio between songs, and rocks back steadily, mouth falling open as Harry slowly fucks him open. Harry is breathing so loud, rough like it’s catching in his throat, and his hands are huge and steady on his hips, pulling Nick back onto his cock in slow strokes. 

“You okay, babe?” Harry asks finally. His voice is hoarse like he’s been onstage. “Want more?”

“Next time I fuck you, I’m going to be an absolute prick like you,” Nick says. Harry laughs and thrusts all the way in, startling a ragged gasp from Nick. Nick forgets what else he wanted to say, closing his eyes and grinding back into Harry. 

Harry fucks him hard, running his hand up Nick’s spine to rest at the base of his neck, squeezing lightly, and wrapping his other arm around Nick’s hips to tug at his cock. Nick swears, bucks into it, and gasps out Harry’s name as Harry rubs his thumb over the head, where Nick is leaking like a teenager. He’s so, so hard, god, and he can feel his orgasm coming, his stomach tensing—

Harry tightens his grip on Nick’s cock so much that he gasps out, “Fucking hell, Harry!”

“Not yet,” Harry says breathlessly. His thrusts have grown erratic, and from the crack in his voice, Nick knows he’s close. Nick groans, trying to push Harry’s hand off him so he can get himself off, but Harry hangs on and fucks into Nick one last time, spilling hot inside him. 

“Shit,” Harry murmurs against Nick’s neck. He circles his hips experimentally, startling a moan from Nick when he bumps against his prostate again. “Look at you. Such a mess.”

“A mess you made,” Nick points out as Harry pulls out. He can feel come slipping out of his arse, across his thighs. He probably looks a sight. “So am I allowed to come now?”

“Not yet,” Harry says. He kisses down Nick’s spine, hands spreading Nick’s arse open. It takes Nick an embarrassingly long time to realize what he’s going for, and he lets out a startled yelp when Harry licks along the curve of his arse, down into where he’s wet and open. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick says. “Harry, you dirty boy.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry says, pressing his fingers in. “Love this.” He licks in along the rim. Nick’s thighs are shaking, and he’s so hard he could probably put someone’s eye out. He ruts against the mattress as Harry eats him out, trembling on the edge again, but he needs a little more. He doesn’t know if he’s conveying that, or if Harry’s just ignoring his desperate, whingy sounds. 

“Harry,” Nick says, “Christ, please let me come, you monster.”

Harry hauls Nick up by the hips—bless his new strength—and starts jerking him off, pulling back to pant against Nick’s arse, breath tickling his oversensitive skin. “Come on, Nick,” Harry whispers, punctuating himself with a quick kiss to Nick’s back. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the underside of Nick’s cock, pressing just a little harder than Nick would himself, and Nick chokes on a curse as he comes, cock jerking in Harry’s big hand. 

“Shit,” he says when he’s finally come down, Harry plastered along his slide and running his fingers through Nick’s hair. “Didn’t know you had it in you, popstar.”

“I think you’ll find you had it in you,” Harry says, and he giggles, tucking his face against Nick’s shoulder. “It was good, then?”

“You know it was bloody good, don’t be cheeky,” Nick says. “God, I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

“Leave it for a bit,” Harry says. He trails his hand down Nick’s back, rubs absently at the come along his thighs. “I quite like it.”

“Possessive, aren’t you?” Nick asks, like he has any leg to stand on when it comes to possessiveness. “All right, then, but don’t complain when I stink in the morning.”

“Never,” Harry says. “Stay here, I’m going to rinse my mouth out.”

When Harry comes back, his mouth smells like Listerine, and he wastes no time in closing the distance to snog Nick breathless. He kisses down Nick’s neck and starts sucking at the skin just above his collar, hard enough Nick knows it’s going to leave a mark. 

“Harry, love, do you want me to walk around like I’m your sixth form girlfriend?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. Nick can feel him smiling. He nips lightly, runs his tongue over the growing bruise, and adds, “Want you to have to cover it up. Or not.”

Nick thinks, _oh_ , and reaches up to curl his fingers in Harry’s hair. “Then by all means.”

 

The mark Harry leaves on Nick’s neck is a lurid purple in the morning, and Harry keeps poking at it, grinning when Nick tries to bat him away. He hasn’t bothered putting clothes on, just lazing around the kitchen in his pants and a smug expression. Nick bites his finger the next time it comes near him and is satisfied to see Harry’s eyes go dark. 

“Nick,” Harry whinges. “Not fair.”

“You started it, love,” Nick says. He flicks through his phone notifications, opens Snapchat, and watches Pixie and Daisy dancing around Daisy’s kitchen, Collette vomiting rainbows, and then he gets to Aimee’s, which is just a photo of _The Sun_. They have a picture of him and Harry at the golf course holding hands, a bit far off but still clearly them. She’s written ????? across it. He swipes to send her a chat and writes, _Tell you about it when I’m home. xx_  
  
“What is it?” Harry asks. “Bad news?”

“We made _The Sun_ ,” Nick says. “Dunno what story they’re going with, but we’re there. Probably should call the BBC’s PR.”

“I’ll call ours,” Harry says. “They knew it was a possibility, but I suppose they’ll want to talk.” He makes a face. “Isn’t it stupid that just because people think we’re important we have to go through all this nonsense just to be with the person we love?”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ll have you know I am _very_ important,” says Nick, but he kisses Harry’s cheek as he goes outside to phone the BBC’s PR department. They agree to have a no comment policy in place for the time being, that it won’t be on the entertainment news, and that in the event that they decide to confirm anything, it’ll be on Harry’s end. 

“Oh, and Grimmy,” says Vanessa, who’s close to his mum’s age and seems to think of Nick as a particularly inept child that she has to handle. “Congratulations. You look really happy.”

Nick chews the inside of his lip for a moment and then smiles. “I am. Thanks, Vanessa. See you when I’m home, love.”

“Ta,” she says, ringing off. Nick remains outside, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the early morning sky. This is really happening. Harry’s inside talking to his PR, and he just talked to his, and Harry’s right, it’s mad they have to even talk about this. Maybe if Harry weren’t Harry Styles off of One Direction they wouldn’t have to, but then that’s the Harry who Nick fell in love with. And it’s worth it, really, even though it’s all mad. 

“Well, that could have gone better,” Harry says, coming out to prop his chin on Nick’s shoulder. He hugs Nick from behind, pressing his mouth to the mark on Nick’s neck. “They thought they’d have more time to spin it.”

“Whatever,” Nick says. “Fuck ‘em.”

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Harry asks. “I know you get it worse than I do. I’ve seen the things people say about you on Twitter.”

“You shouldn’t look at that, love, it’ll give you nightmares.” Nick leans back into him. “I know what they’ll say. I don’t care anymore.”

“I love you,” Harry says softly, kissing behind his ear, at the nape of his neck. “Thank you for being here.”

“No place I’d rather be,” Nick says, perhaps too honestly, and they stand there until Nick’s stomach starts growling and they have to go inside to finish breakfast. 

 

Maybe it’s that they know their time together is coming all too quickly to the end, or maybe it’s just that they’re horny bastards, but they rarely venture out of the house after that, spending most of their time in the pool or Harry’s bed. Nick’s thighs have never been this sore, and he jokes he’s going to be ripped by the time he gets back to England with all the exercise he’s getting. 

“Did you know the average person burns a hundred calories during sex?” Harry asks with his mouth pressed to Nick’s stomach. “I reckon we’re doing better than that, though.”

“Certainly feels like it,” Nick says. “You’ve really shagged my brains out, Harold.”

Harry beams at that. 

The night before Nick is supposed to go home, Harry rides him out by the pool. They’ve laid out a blanket by the pool, and Nick’s got his hands on Harry’s hips, guiding him down. His face is lit silver in the moonlight, and Nick feels like a soppy bastard thinking he looks like a piece of art, but he _does_ , he looks like good porn and fine art and a god all at once. His mouth falls open as he fucks himself on Nick’s cock, but hardly any sound comes out, like he’s past noise. 

When Harry comes, he lets out his first noise, small moan as he spills over Nick’s chest. He whimpers as Nick continues fucking up into him, and Nick knows he must be sensitive, but he’s desperate for it now, too, and he pulls Harry down to snog him as he comes. 

They kiss lazily after Nick pulls out, running their hands over each other and rocking their hips together. It’s just on the right side of too much; Nick isn’t going to come again, but it’s like an echo of it, the memory of orgasm. Harry sucks at the fading mark on Nick’s neck again, and Nick should probably stop him. But he’s leaving in the morning, and he won’t have anything of Harry to take with him otherwise. 

“Do you have to go?” Harry asks quietly. He splays his hand out over Nick’s chest, finger tapping against the pendant he’d given Nick for Christmas. _Forever I will stay_ , Nick thinks. 

“I have a job,” Nick says. “You could come with me, you know.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I want to. I need more time here, I think. Just a little.” He falls silent, but Nick can feel him thinking in the tenseness of his shoulders. “It isn’t home without you here.”

Nick squeezes Harry to his chest. “I know what you mean, love.” 

Harry falls asleep against Nick, mouth open against his nipple, which is more ticklish than arousing at this point. Nick wakes him to go inside, and Harry passes out again the moment he hits the bed, but Nick stays awake, watching the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest until the sky outside starts to lighten and he has to go shower so he can catch his flight out of LAX. 

The same drive that had brought him to Louis’s takes them both to the airport, Harry curled up against Nick’s chest and quiet. He’s bright eyed like he’s trying not to cry, and when Nick kisses him in the car, he clings to Nick’s shirt hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. 

“I love you so much,” Harry says. “I promise I won’t be long. This was the best two weeks of my life, Nick.”

“Mine too,” Nick says, cupping Harry’s jaw. He kisses him again, and then the driver is opening their door and Nick has to collect his bags and head to check-in. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t think his heart can take it. 

 

He’s a miserable git his first few days back in London, snapping at everyone from Aimee to Michael to even Tina. All of them try to needle him about Harry, but they seem to quickly realize that he’s in too much of a mood to put up with it, and they back off after his first day back. Half the texts and tweets are about Harry, which doesn’t do much for Nick’s loneliness or his annoyance, and he’s a right bear to Nesta when he slyly mentions Nick’s trip to California. 

He and Harry talk every day, but it isn’t the same, even when they manage to get Skype or Facetime going. There’s one day they sit and watch telly together, phones to their heads as they watch completely different shows, just listening to each other breathe. It’s all so strange and new, really feeling like he needs someone. He misses Harry so entirely, from the warmth of his body in bed to the weird food he cooks to the way he sings when he’s doing the washing up. 

The mark Harry left on his neck is slow to fade. Nick can’t stop poking at it, watching the skin turn white and then return to the same bruised colour. He doesn’t bother trying to hide it, partly out of defiance, and partly because hiding it would feel like hiding _Harry_ , and he doesn’t want to do that. Fiona pinches it on Monday morning, tells him they’ll talk about it sometime, and leaves him be when he glares at her. 

But he does end up talking to her about it when they go out with Aimee and Ian to some place Aimee’s obsessed with lately. Tells all of them that Harry _loves_ him. Harry, his Harry. Properly his Harry, now. Aimee squeezes his hand, knowing perhaps better than anyone what this means to him, while Ian and Fiona exchange knowing looks. 

“What?” Nick asks, narrowing his eyes at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno,” Ian says, “but you remember when he used to just come in here and hang out? He would be in the studio for your entire show, not saying anything, just watching you. I’m not that surprised, is all.”

“We’re happy for you, Grimmy,” Fiona says. “We wish you best of luck. And all the support, naturally.”

“God,” Nick groans, dropping his head in his hands. “What’s happened to me? I’m pining over a bloody popstar.”

“A popstar that loves you back, though,” Aimee points out. “You’ll find a way to work it out. If he’s been thinking about this like he says he has, he’ll be thinking of something.”

Naturally, the next morning Nick gets his first nude photo from Harry. 

His phone goes off in the middle of one of Florence’s songs, and he sees Harry’s name pop up on the screen. Vic narrows her eyes at him as he picks it up, but doesn’t bother admonishing him, just makes a _hurry up_ gesture. Nick opens the message and almost immediately swipes out of it, face heating. _Jesus Christ Harry_ , he texts back, _I’m at work_.

 _Just want to make sure you don’t forget about me xx_ , Harry sends back, the cheeky git. 

“Who’s texting you?” Fiona asks shrewdly, and Nick hastily shoves his phone into his pocket. 

“No one,” he says. “I, of course, keep my phone turned off during broadcasts, like a responsible DJ.”

Vic makes a wanking motion and points at Nick to do the next link. He makes a face at her and says, “That was Florence and the Machine, love it.” 

Somehow he gets through the rest of the show, though he keeps thinking about the glance he’d had of the picture at inopportune times, like when he’s trying to banter with Tina or say something about the Live Lounge. When he finally escapes the BBC, he drives like a maniac all the way home, locks himself in his room so Pig can’t get in, and opens the text thread back up. 

Harry’s sent more pictures, none with his face in, but Nick knows that cock, even if he didn’t recognize the laurel tattoos at Harry’s hips. In the first, his hand is loosely wrapped around his dick, pulling back the foreskin slightly so Nick can see that he’s wet, glistening. Nick swallows hard and works his jeans down so he can start jerking himself off. 

He can perfectly imagine it, is the thing, Harry spread out on his huge bed and biting his lip as he angles his phone just right. He probably gets off on the naughtiness of it, showing Nick how hard he is, and when Nick flicks through the other photos to see Harry’s cock leaking with precome, Harry softening against his stomach, come smeared over his tattoos, he arches up and fucks into his own hand, imagining Harry doing the same.

He doesn’t send Harry any pictures back because he’s not as trusting as him, and he’s careful to delete the ones Harry texted him, though not without a pang of regret. _Look good, love. Ever consider a change of career?_ he sends instead. 

_We could try filming us one of these days,_ Harry sends back, casual as anything. _I think I’d quite like that_.

 _You’re going to be the death of me_ , Nick informs him. Then he adds, _I love you_.

 _Love you too xx_ , Harry says. It must be late in LA by now. Nick wonders if he was waiting up. He takes a picture of himself smiling and sends it to Harry. 

_Sleep well, love_ , he says, and if he lies in bed for a while with his phone clutched to his chest, no one’s there to rat him out. 

 

Harry doesn’t tell him he’s coming back. The only notice Nick has at all is the smell of spag bol coming from his flat when he comes home one night in early June. Nick lets himself in and crouches down to greet Pig, scratching behind her head as she licks excitedly at his hand. From the door he can see Harry at the stove, hair pulled back, and an apron Nick definitely didn’t own tied around his waist and neck. 

“Hiya, love,” Nick says, not getting up. “I’m home.”

Harry glances over his shoulder and says, “Me too.” He beckons Nick over. “Taste this, please.”

Nick obediently gets up and lets Harry feed him a bit of sauce. It’s good, not that he’s paying much mind, too busy cataloguing Harry’s appearance. Tanner; hair a bit longer, Nick thinks; smiling wider than Nick has seen in ages, and what looks like a new tattoo just below his collar. 

“What’s this?” Nick asks, tapping the skin lightly. “Get yourself some more ink?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says. He pulls at the loose collar of his shirt and shows Nick the delicate script, matching the back of Nick’s pendant. _Forever I will stay_. Nick presses his fingers to the swirling tail of the _y_ and feels, all of a sudden, like he might cry. “Thought we should match.”

“You stupid boy,” Nick says thickly. “You stupid, wonderful boy.” He kisses Harry before he can protest that he isn’t a boy, flattening his hand over the new tattoo. Harry melts into him, matching Nick’s desperation with a soft whimper. 

“I’m making tea,” Harry says against Nick’s mouth. “Don’t want it to burn.”

“Fine,” Nick says. “But after that I’m having you. It’s been ages.”

“It’s been a month or so,” Harry says. “So yeah, absolutely far too long.” He nuzzles his head into Nick’s neck and wraps his long arms around Nick’s waist. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Nick kisses the top of his head. “You’ve no idea, love. I’ve been a right bastard to everyone. Just ask Aimee.”

“Pretty sure Jeff was ready to chuck me out of the country himself,” Harry says. “I’m proper mental about you, you know.”

“Me too,” Nick says. He’s reluctant to let Harry go, even though he knows Harry needs to go back to cooking. “Don’t leave again.”

“Not for a while,” Harry says. “I promise.” He cradles Nick’s face between his hands, rings cool points against his skin. “We’ll work it out, okay? We have to.”

“Yeah, love.” Nick kisses him again and forces himself to step back. “Want me to make garlic bread? I’m dead good at garlic bread.”

Harry flashes him a quick, tremulous smile and nods. Nick sets about getting out a loaf from his fridge and a few cloves of garlic. He’s careful to keep his eyes on the cutting board as he minces up the garlic, but when he looks up, he sees Harry watching him. “Stop that,” he says. “I’m going to cut myself.”

“I’ve missed you,” Harry says. “I really did.”

“I believe you.” Nick flicks a piece of garlic at him and laughs at Harry’s outraged face. “Stop it, though, it’s unnerving.”

“I’m romantic,” Harry says. He hands Nick the baking tray for the oven and watches as Nick mixes the garlic into butter and olive oil. “Where’d you learn this, then?”

“Nigella, obviously,” Nick says. “I think.”

“Brilliant.” Harry kisses Nick’s cheek, beaming. “Proper domestic, aren’t we?”

“Next we’ll be arguing about curtains,” Nick agrees. “I quite like it, actually.” 

“Me too.” Harry kisses him again, this time catching the corner of his mouth. “Fancy some wine?”

They drink half the bottle while they’re still cooking and finish the rest with dinner. Harry keeps kicking at Nick’s feet under the table while he catches Nick up on what he’s been doing in LA. Nick tries to catch his ankle before finally putting his foot in Harry’s lap and poking his toes against the inside of Harry’s thigh. Harry goes very still then, smile turning dirty and wicked. 

It isn’t much of a surprise that they end up abandoning their food to snog on Nick’s sofa, Nick sprawled out over Harry and steadily rocking his hips down against Harry’s. Harry hooks his fingers into Nick’s necklace and tugs him down, gasping, “Yeah, come on,” and they end up coming in their pants like virgins on a first date. 

“Christ,” Nick says against Harry’s jaw. “I need a change and a kip, I think. I’m knackered.”

“Aww, did I wear you out?” Harry teases, pinching Nick’s side. 

“Yes, you and your magnificent cock,” says Nick. “You absolute maniac.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says. “Go on, I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

“Would you?” Nick pecks the side of Harry’s cheek and rolls off him. “Ugh. I do not miss this,” he says, pulling at the waistband of his jeans to try to make himself a little more comfortable. 

He finds that Harry has already dropped his suitcase off in Nick’s bedroom, which is so typical that Nick has to kick the wheels on purpose. He changes into a fresh pair of pants and lies flat on his back. From here he can hear the sound of Harry banging around the kitchen, and it’s been so long since he lived with another person that it’s rather comforting. 

Nick dozes off and wakes up to find Harry drawing carefully on his arm with a Sharpie he had found somewhere, colouring in a sneaky apostrophe between the _n_ and the _t_ of Nick’s _I cant_ tattoo. Nick snorts and cups the back of Harry’s head. 

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” he asks, scratching his scalp lightly. 

“Since you got the thing,” Harry says. “You kept waking up before me in LA, or I would’ve done it then.” 

“Sorry, love,” Nick says. 

“It makes me twitch,” Harry says. “I’m going to take you to get it fixed when we have some time.”

“You ought to have been a teacher,” Nick says. “Kitchen put away?”

“Clean and tidy, just as you like it.” Harry sits up and moves to straddle Nick’s hips. “You owe me a proper shag later.”

“Do I?” Nick asks, raising his eyebrows. “I think you were the one too excited to get his trousers down.”

“Neither of us got them down,” Harry says. He rocks down, cheek dimpling. “Just that happy to see me, huh?”

Nick throws his hand over his eyes and groans theatrically. “Terrible, Harold. Absolutely terrible.”

“You love me,” Harry says, pulling his arm away. He leans down to kiss him, hair falling around them like a curtain. 

“Yeah,” Nick says when Harry pulls back. “I rather do.”

 

The second time Harry and Nick met, the time that counts, Nick was pissed and pushy, bothering the shit out of Liam Payne when he was trying to talk to Ronnie Wood. Harry was seated across from him at the table, cheeks flushed from the sneaky sips of alcohol he was stealing from Louis’s glass, and he looked bright-eyed and so young. Nick smiled at him, wondering if Harry remembered him from when they briefly met, and elbowed Liam in the side to ask him about Ronnie Wood. 

Later, Harry had shifted several seats down and was leaning against Nick’s arm to ask, “What do you think of Nero?” 

“The emperor?” Nick asked, laughing. “The fiddler?”

“No, the band,” Harry said, which had surprised Nick. “You’ve played them on your show.”

“You listen to my show?” Nick asked. Harry was very warm, and his breath smelled of champagne. Nick idly wondered if he would taste of it too. “For god’s sake, why?”

“I like it,” Harry says. “Your voice reminds me of home.”

And that—Nick has thought, sometimes, that maybe he’d be better off trying to shed his accent, but when people say things like that, he can’t bring himself to. “That’s awfully kind of you, Harry Styles,” he said, lifting his glass to tap it against Harry’s forehead. 

Harry smiled. “I like that you say my whole name,” he says. “It’s nice.” 

“You’re drunk, aren’t you,” Nick said suspiciously. “Don’t you have famous and important people to talk to?”

“I already am,” Harry said. “Talking to one.” He elbowed Nick in the side and added, “Give me your phone.”

Nick handed it over before he remembered that his background was a horribly embarrassing photo of him and Henry at last Halloween. Harry just laughed, though, and set about punching his contact details in, brow creasing in concentration. 

“There,” he said at last. “Text me so I know it’s you.”

Nick texted _Hiya it’s Grimmy!!!!_ which was several more exclamation points than he’d use normally. Harry picked up his phone and added him to his address book. 

“And now we’re friends,” Harry said. “That’s how it works.”

“Is it?” Nick threw his arm around Harry’s shoulder and hugged him tight. “I suppose so.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “So tell me about Nero.”

“You know, Harry Styles,” Nick said, ruffling his thick curls and grinning when Harry made a face like an angry cat, “I think this is the beginning of something wonderful.”

“You probably say that to all the boys,” Harry said, glancing up at him through his lashes. 

_I really don’t_ , Nick thought. But he smiled, and dropped his arm, and instead of pushing, he told Harry exactly what he thought about Nero’s record, and Harry listened, interjecting every now and then with his own opinions. And Nick, even then, even three sheets to the wind and ignorant of just how important Harry would become, knew that Harry was a dangerous boy; knew that he was rare and precious; knew, that if given time, he would love him. 

 

The alarm goes off far too early in the morning, even though he’s used to it by now. Harry groans and rolls over to shove his face into the pillows, muttering something that sounds like, “Fuck _off_.”

“I’ve got it,” Nick says, leaning over to switch it off. He gets up, stretches, and pads off to shower. The hot water goes a long way towards startling him awake, and by the time he comes out, he’s feeling marginally human. Harry has emerged from the pillows when Nick comes in, and he’s completely unashamed about checking Nick out as he rummages in his dresser for pants. 

“Shame you have to go to work,” Harry says lazily. “Reckon I wouldn’t mind being awake if I could suck your cock right now.”

Nick rolls his eyes heavenwards and says, “You are a bloody minx, Harry Styles.”

“So they tell me,” Harry says cheerfully. “You should wear that green top you have, it makes your eyes look nice.”

Nick frowns, rifling through his closet. He finds two different green shirts and holds them up for Harry’s approval. Harry squints thoughtfully, then points. “The left.”

“My left or your left?”

“Yours.” 

Nick nods and puts the other one back. “Any opinion on my trousers today?”

“Anything that’s tight so I can ogle your arse,” Harry says. 

“Of course, not much point in a boyfriend if you can’t ogle his arse.” Nick picks out a pair of jeans and starts to pull them on. “What are your plans today?”

“Nothing yet,” Harry says. “Haven’t told anyone except Mum and Gemma that I’m back in the country.”

Nick turns as he finishes tugging his shirt over his head and kneels on the bed. “How do you fancy coming in with me?” Nick asks, stroking Harry’s hair away from his face. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t like, you can have a kip in the green room even. We’re not having anyone on today.”

“That might be nice,” Harry says, rubbing at his eyes before catching Nick’s hand. “It’ll be like when I used to visit your night show.”

“I’ll have you know Producer Vic is much stricter than Matt,” Nick tells him. “So no moving my mic away from my face.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Harry says. He smiles sweetly up at Nick, unguarded and open. “I won’t even throw things.”

“Promises, promises,” Nick says. “Come on, popstar, up and at ‘em. Can’t be late.”

Harry hasn’t bothered unpacking, so he ends up wearing Nick’s clothes, though Nick thinks the jeans he’s wearing actually may have started out as Harry’s. He falls asleep on the short drive over, and Nick has to herd him to the door, hoping it’s too early for anyone to see who it is he’s got with him. Fiona shrieks when she sees Harry and nearly suffocates him in a hug, and Vic is polite, maybe a little starstruck, even as she’s giving Nick a look that says she’s probably talked to Matt about what happens when Harry’s in studio. 

“Do you want headphones?” she asks Harry. Fiona can’t stop grinning, and Nick has to bat her hand away to keep her from Snapchatting the whole thing. 

“Keep a lid on it, love,” he tells her. “Please.”

“You’re no fun,” she tells him, but she does put her phone away. Harry gives her a small smile, tells Vic he doesn’t need headphones, and settles into the seat next to Nick, resting his head on Nick’s shoulder. It can’t be comfortable -- Nick knows perfectly well how bony he is -- but Harry has an insane talent for being able to fall asleep anywhere and by the time Nick’s doing his first link, Harry’s asleep again, mouth slightly open. Fiona looks as though she’s a second away from cooing. Nick knows the feeling. 

Harry sleeps through the first hour and a half of the show, periodically rousing slightly when Nick shifts or dances to one of the songs without thinking. All that time off in California has ruined him. He wakes in the middle of a Disclosure song, frowning and rubbing at his eyes grumpily when Nick grins at him. 

“Too bloody early,” he tells Nick. 

“I know, love,” Nick says. “You can kip in the green room, like I said. There’s a nice lovely sofa in there.”

“I’d rather be here,” Harry says. “I’m gonna get a coffee, though.” He kisses Nick’s cheek and excuses himself. Nick studiously avoids Vic and Fiona’s eyes, pretending to be looking at his phone. 

Harry seems marginally more awake when he returns to the studio, sans coffee because he knows the rules by now, and he proceeds to try to tickle Nick during every link, completely breaking his promise not to do anything naughty. Nick catches Harry’s hands in his and squeezes hard as he talks to Dermot O’Leary over the phone. Harry turns his hand so they’re palm to palm and laces their fingers together. 

Nick stutters and forgets what he was about to say. 

“Grimmy?” says Dermot. “You still there?”

“Sorry,” Nick says, “spilled a bit of coffee on myself, don’t tell Producer Vic.”

“I’m right here,” Vic points out. 

“You saw nothing,” Nick says. Harry is rubbing his thumb over the back of Nick’s hand, smiling angelically. “Repeat that for me, Dermot?”

Toward the end of the show, Harry gets up and starts dancing during the songs, caffeine apparently kicking in, and Nick joins in, trying to drag Fiona up with him. She gets up for a moment, letting Nick twirl her around before she shoves him away and goes back to doing producer-y things. Nick grabs Harry instead, swinging him around and dipping him, laughing loudly when they nearly overbalance and fall. When he looks up, Fiona has her phone out, filming them. 

“Fifi,” he says, exasperated. 

“You have to let me put that one up, Grimmy, it’s too good,” she says. Nick looks at Harry, who shrugs. 

“I told you,” he said. “It’s okay.” He shimmies a little and pushes Nick back toward his seat. “You’ve got talking to do.”

Harry takes out his own phone and takes a picture as Nick gets his headphones back on. Nick squints suspiciously at him, but reads out a few tweets as Fiona and Harry bend over their phones. The bloody modern age. The kids and their tweets, all that. 

When he glances at his notifications, he sees that Fiona’s tagged him in a video that says _@nicholasgrimshaw working hard…_ and Harry’s already liked it. Harry, for his part, has posted a picture of Nick’s profile as he talks into the mic, in black and white with no caption. He’s such a hipster, and Nick would know. 

“It’s going to be a nightmare leaving the studio, love,” he tells Harry. 

Harry shrugs and tucks his hand into the crook of Nick’s elbow. “It’s happened before.”

“I bet you miss it, you lunatic,” Nick says. As the song fades out, he says, “We were proper dancing to that one, weren’t we, Fifi? Got that Friday feeling on a Wednesday.”

“I’m not sure I’m feeling it as much as you,” says Fiona, the bloody traitor. Tina’s laughing in Nick’s ear. “I’m thinking you should go on Strictly.”

“Never heard of it. What night’s it on?”

“Saturday,” says Fiona. 

“Ah, well, that’s because I’m watching X Factor on Saturdays,” Nick says. “Can’t get enough of me own face.”

“Anyone bought you that selfie stick you wanted?” Fiona asks, and Nick gives her two fingers as he pretends that he doesn’t want one. Harry bites at his bicep lightly, grins up at him, and starts running his fingers up and down the inside of his arm. Nick loathes him. 

Harry waits around in the green room while Nick sits in his post-show meeting, charming the wee indie band that’s come in to talk with Clara judging by the looks on their faces when Nick comes to collect him. On their way out, security warns them that there’s a huge crowd outside and when they chance look, they see a sea of people. 

“Well, suppose we knew that would happen,” Nick says bracingly. “Ready to make a run in the car?” 

Harry takes Nick’s hand. “Ready to run,” he says cheekily, and then, when Nick frowns at him, says, “Album track, you tosser. I’m going to make you listen to our whole back catalogue later.”

And that’s one more item for the future, isn’t it. They’ve got so much ahead of them: deciding whether to officially confirm the rumours circling the papers, the possible end of One Direction’s break, telling their families the news, moving Harry’s things to Nick’s flat—assuming that’s what Harry wants—dealing with their respective PR. There’s bound to be uncomfortable questions, and cruel words, and likely a few arguments, or fights, but that’s all in the future. Right now, Nick just wants to hold his boyfriend’s hand and take him home. 

“All right,” he says. “We can play Which Direction.”

Harry laughs, bright and loud, and tugs Nick toward the door. “And then,” he says, far too loudly for public, “you can give me that shag you owe me,” and Nick covers his face in horror as he hears one of BBC2’s producers start pissing herself laughing behind him. 

“Absolute bloody menace,” he says, squeezing Harry’s hand, and he follows Harry out into the new day.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're so inclined, come say hi to me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/hkafterdark) or [tumblr](http://officerbobrovsky.tumblr.com).


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